A POEM OF THE TIME(S)

I woke up this moring and this ditty came more or less rushing into my head. Without bragging on it too much, let me just say, as a literature professor, that the attentive will find multiple allusions to major poets and some prosodic and structural grace notes.


2004: A Race Oddity; or
The Chowderhead's Song

When Manny, being Manny,
is on his late September holiday
and I am forced to watch the spectacle
of my beloved Dice-K
issuing walks and gopher balls
because, they say, he's hit the wall,
I need not pine, I need not chafe,
but go into my mental safe
and retrieve the memory of 2004
When three down, we won four
in a row, say no more,
I need say no more
(which is good, cause I got nothing more to say)
We are the dogs, that was our day.
Our one and only little day.


When Curt throws fastballs ready-to-launch,
Fatter than his own considerable paunch,
When his blog entries blow
harder than any pitch he'll throw,
And when he finds time for a thousand
explanations and justifications, and worse,
That a single Yankee homer will reverse,
Well, then, I too can wave the bloody sock
And remember Two Thousand and Four,
When he was our very own Rock
of Gibraltar, or Plymouth,
or whatever bulbous legend he'd like to claim
to talk himself into the Hall of Fame.
Say no more doughboy,
You need say no more
(Cause even we're sick of what you have to say)
How you stole the credit from Pedro
and Derek Lowe,
So you could have your day.
Your one and only little day.


When Bucky fucking Dent comes back
As Aaron fucking Boone,
And McNamara's blunder
In leaving in Bill Buckner
Comes back as Grady Little's boner
In leaving in our Pedro,
When I must needs endure that litany,
That endless fucking litany
Of what it means to be a Yankee,
Of the 40 pennants and 26 Rings
Enough to stuff small countries
Full of bling,
I can still drag it out once more,
Like some recalcitrant old whore,
The ghost of Two Thousand Four
(Like some Republican
with Two Thousand One)
When Manny still seemed a holy fool
And Curt was a little less the Tool
Before the HGH gave David Ortiz
Jason Giambi's broken knees
And Papelbon was still a gleam
In Jeter and AROD's late inning eyes
And Theo still seemed youthfully wise,
Before he shipped Arroyo off for Willy Mo
And Gabbard for Gag-me
Treating our franchise
Like his fantasy team.
Before that immortal trio
Of Cabrera to Renterria to Julio.

But now I'll say no more.
Now, really, I need say no more.
(Which is good cause there's so much more to say
Of Red Sox losers before and since that day)
Of how Goose Gossage made us ill
And Jason Veritek's declining skills.
But I can still reflect upon that day,
That glorious day, Two Thousand Four,
Before it slips completely away,
When we won four
To lift Babe's curse
And finally, finally freed ourselves--
Of the ability to speak of anything else.