A World Series Poem

This was written by Jason Motte's glove, SirGloveAWilson:Twas the night before the World Series, when all through the clubhouseNot a player was stirring, not even a Lohse.The championships were hung by the flagpoles with care,In hopes that Bud Selig will soon put another one there.The mascots were nestled all snug in their beds,While visions of 3 run homers danced in their heads.And La Russa in his glasses, and I on Jason’s hands,Had just settled our minds for all the Cardinals Fans.When out on the field there arose such a clatter,It was Albert Pujols, our team’s best batter.Away to the dugout I flew like a flash,Made sure I was not where one of those balls crashed.The moon on the breast of the new-fallen sodGave the lustre of mid-day of this Glove’s great bod.When, what to my two eyes should appear,But a great ballclub who the Rangers should fear.With Big Mac as a coach, so lively and quick,I knew in a moment he can still swing the stick.More rapid than eagles his hitters they ...