Actually, by Hart Seely
His new book, Mother Goose Goes to Washington: Nursery Rhymes for the Political Barnyard, is now available from Simon & Schuster.
Once upon a midnight era, while I pondered Yogi Berra,
O’er many our Babes and Scooters, men of dynasties of pinstriped lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a yapping,
Like Big Pappi, loudly crapping, rapping ’bout some final score.
‘Tis some Redsock fan,’ I muttered, “drunken still, from 2004.”
“Only this, and nothing more.”
Ah, distinctly, I remember; we had rumbled through September,
‘Till our Bronxian troops had snatched a Wild Card from the Tigers’ drawer.
Anxiously, I sought each morrow; for our foes, I’d feel no sorrow,
For we would beg or steal or borrow, tomorrow would be ours for sure.
Beating down the Redsocks in a way no Gammons could ignore,
Owning them, forevermore.
Though some hitters could be chilling, we’d take pleasure on Curt Schilling,
Crushing balls of gopher, wreaking havoc like in times of yore;
And in my heart, though feeling clammy, I imagined beaning Manny,
Manny, being Manny, on his fanny, writhing on the floor.
Send them home as losers, and to us, a series ring restore!
Champions soon, and evermore!
“Suddenly, I felt a shudder, sensed a faint, familiar flutter,
In flew a stubbled chin of rubbled skin of double-grubbled gore.
And there before me, face a-twitter; t’was the famed Piazza-hitter;
He of filth and cheese and splitter, Roger Clemens at my door!
Bigger than Giambi, wide and pinstriped at my chamber door.
Big he was, as Michael Moore.
“Beast!” said I, “Fiend full of might! What evil brings you here tonight?
“What lures you out of Texas to this distant place and littered shore?
“Ancient one, so grand and pro, who hurled for us, once, long ago,
“Tell me, creature, large as train, that we’ll rule the Socks again!
“Send them home as losers, and to George a series ring restore?
Quoth the Rocket… “Nevermore.”
Soon to FOX, my eyes were peering, long I sat there watching, cheering,
Certain we’d beat Cleveland, for we’d always beaten them before.
Andy, Moose, Chien-Ming Wang! How could anything go wrong?
But then again, I bent to cussing; ’round our heads I felt a buzzing,
Bugs and mites and pop-ups; we were roasted, toasted, out in four.
Quoth the Rocket. “Nevermore.”
And so the Rocket, once rehired, now sits resting, home, retired;
While tears of Susyn Waldman stain the paint upon my chamber door.
For in his eyes was all the seeming of a Redsock who’d been scheming,
And now his Boston fans are streaming, gleaming from the drinks they pour;
And my team, from hell itself, a curse we’re facing to be sure…
It shall be lifted. nevermore.
You can see more of Hart’s poetry and Yankee silliness at his blog, IT IS HIGH, IT IS FAR, IT IS…..caught.
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