by Frank Thorwirth
At 6 to 6 the game was even
Rain delay, doubt in believing.
Go to sleep while eyes shut down?
Are you kidding me, clown?
A friend from Chicago on the phone,
What the f . . . Together we moan.
The 10th with only three more outs,
And believe it or not, no more doubts,
Hours away from Chicago’s North Side,
Sitting, standing awake, still with home pride.
It’s 5:38, it’s finally fixed,
Remember MEZ means “minus six”
Now we can go for an hour to bed,
with no more bad dreams —
The curse of the goat — it’s dead!
Published in Chicago Cubs, Cleveland Indians, Fans, History, Pure doggerel | Link to this poem | 2 Comments