Wednesday, December 31, 2014


With apologies to Roger Angell:

Greetings, Friends!! Of this I’m sure.
Your Boston Red Sox disappoint to the core
Hey that’s nasty, that’s so mean.
What happened to the New Year theme?
Patience, creeps, I’ll get there soon.
Just let me cross the summer swoon.
Let’s lift a glass for Grady Sizemore.
No, let’s not. He’s washed ashore.
Along with Rossy, Yoanis Cespedes
Could we have gotten anything Less (ter)?
I think not. (When I think at all)
But yet we’re yolked to the old baseball.
Spring burnt brightly, trophies raised,
But we ended up in an August haze.
Where to start? Where to go?
On to the Fort. 162-0.
On Remy, On Orsillo, on Obie and Joe
Betts,Papi, Xander and Rusny Castillo.
That just fine mess of a kettle of fish
Thrown in JBJ, Jr. to flail at the dish.
Petey has no powah. Buch has no arm
And what of the can’t miss kids down on the farm?
What, indeed. You can collect ‘em all.
A then trade the lot for a bucket of balls.

Or Hanley Ramirez, of surname so screwy.
He’ll run to LF and then pull a U—ey.
Back to the infield, or slide on to first.
He’s hardly the guy to quench the creeps’ thirst.
But what do my wandering eyes do appear?
A big chunky Panda with eleventeen years
On his contract and big Benjamins
He’s got his rings and he’ll never be thin.
Look forward, not back. No “three in ten years”
Not us creeps, as determined by vote of our peers.
There’s Rich and the Kaz-man, Natalie, too
Past-a-Diving-Jeter and the Hon. sdu . (“g’day, mate”)
Pablo, C. Flake and of course, Bob, too.
It would be no holiday without giving a cat doff
To the world’s longest comment string without a payoff.
As the year nears its end, I am serving thin gruel
With a good mix of lovable, surly and cruel.
It seems like there’s no succor
No hope for our crew.
We are strapped to this Sox team
As it keeps turning the screw.
Hark now! We espy the elephant in the panel.
h.b. has “retired”, but continues to channel
Our hopes, dreams and fears. Each now and again
He puts up some artwork, and brings us back in.
In short, we deserve it, and have no surcease.
We are stuck in our Fenway Park thousand year lease.
Nine dollars for beer! Can I get a ten?
Wally’s an icon. Here hand him a pen.
I could go on, and I have. Now I’ll stop.
Hand me a 40, let’s take a pop.
In a month it is Truck Day
In another, the season.
And the end of the year is just a good reason
To thank all of you from my shallow, foul heart
Let’s yak, let’s bitch, let’s get out to the Pahk.
At the tips of our fingers ,we’ll cheer, scream and jeer
And cry out as one “wait ‘til THIS year’ “
See you in the Series.

No comments: