In two thousand four, more than eighty years done,
The curse was ended in the night,
And Sox Nation finally felt right,
But soon came a seesawing trend,
They cascaded down to the floor,
A team that we simply adore.
They bounce from peak to terrible pit,
Each alternate year they are last,
With Series victories stuck in the past,
They never are real contenders these days,
They wallow and stay at the base,
An absolute, shameful disgrace.
The hated Bombers arrive in our park,
The Bronx fans delight in our grief,
Without any sign of relief,
They humiliate us with ease,
While Boston just rolls over the grass,
And lets the heathen conquerors pass.
The front office stubbornly closes its purse,
No proven ace takes to the rubber on the hill,
To pitch with a veteran’s skill,
No lineup hits three hundred now,
It is weak, doubtful, barren and frail,
Just destined to falter and fail.
The Monster’s glory has faded Fenway’s green walls,
The seasons bring nothing now but dread,
With all of our confidence dead,
Sox Nation is plunged into the dark,
Teddy’s franchise induces our tears,
Depressing the Nation for all these years.
—– Oaxaca 051126