Stop all the Tivos, sit on your hands.
Don’t order a beer to drink there in the stands,
Silence the fans and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let the Blimp circle moaning overhead
Scribbling in the sky the message They are Dead,
Take off the Dropkick Murphys, put on your sweater,
Let the gates of Fenway be shuttered forever.
They were my Spring Training, my All-Star break,
Seventh inning stretch, a juicy steak,
My hot dogs, Cracker Jacks, my beer in a cup;
I thought the season would last forever. But I fucked up..
The Yankees are not wanted now; we need not their pose,
Pack up the Rays. Dismantle the O’s.
Turn off NESN and stack up winter’s wood;
For nothing in baseball is now any good.