by James Finn Garner
As the end of his playing days appears,
I need to ask: Whither A-Rod?
There’ll be no other player left at his tier
On whose neck you can gleefully trod.
No gaffes to rehash, no mistakes to cheer,
No insinuations on his bod,
No schadenfreude thoughts to slur in your beer
That he’s a bum, a starlet, a fraud.
You won’t see Alex this time next year,
And the absence you’ll feel will be odd
Til you choose someone else, with your conscience so clear,
And condemn him like an Old Testament God.