Go you beloved Metropolitans,
you mighty men who smote
the hapless denizens of Chicago,
a valiant, if inexperienced
aggregation of formidable batsmen,
hitless wonders who tried their best,
their best not good enough
to withstand the furious onslaught
of the vaunted twirlers of Gotham
who hurled their heavenly orbs
against the bats that futilely fanned
the Indian summer air.
So onward Murphy, Cespedes and Wright.
Forge a plethora of four-baggers.
Onward Harvey, Syndergaard, DeGrom.
Battle the American League opposition
with your incandescent deliveries.
Nothing but World Series glory
and joyful hosannas
await your prodigious production
guaranteeing certain victory.
THE POETRY OF THE GAME