By James Finn Garner
As ten decades of failure concluded
(The odds against which—mighty steep!),
The Three Fates sat in the Wrigley bleachers,
One last great appointment to keep.
There Clotho with distant expression
Spun thread from her distaff with ease,
The flaxen content of life in her hands,
Her scorecard spread over her knees.
Her sister Lachesis sat by her
To measure each thread to its length,
Her face a smear of SPF 50
As the sun beat down in its strength.
Lastly, Atropos, peddler of doom,
Whose shears sever man’s vital thread,
Was letting the line pile up at her feet
And glassily staring ahead.
What could cause the Fates’ dereliction,
Prolonging the Cubs’ misery?
What forces conspire to cruelly delay
The end of this sad century?
Beside the gals sat die-hard Bacchus,
With grapes twined in his Cubs visor.
“You can’t leave now—we can still score some runs!
Hey Beer Man—bring four more Budweisers!”
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