Hundreds of thousands of victory-maddened revelers
thronged the streets along the parade route,
and many had pre-gamed to the point
where their heads swam violently and they hated being alive.
Hell yeah, their team had done it,
defied the odds, overcame injuries,
and survived a dicey playoff series.
They had done it, they had really done it.
They brought home that gleaming, glinting trophy.
A teen from the wallpaper suburb of Sandwich was so stoked
he hurled a a half-filled beer bottle in a moment of reckless abandon.
The opalescent longneck pegged the manager, splashing stout on his daughter.
“I love him. I didn’t mean to hit him,”
the pimpled teen professed before the cops hauled him away
on charges of assault and battery.
The skipper brushed it off in an interview with the media,
saying his daughter said it’s part of it,
It’s all just a part of it.