Stop all the condiment races, cut off the bullpen phone,
Prevent Billmeyer from barking at Pettibone,
Silence the "NOISE" cheers and with stilted curse
Bring out the stretcher, nay, the manager's hearse.
Let flyovers flare roaring overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message BLUE WHITE RED,
Put shirtseys round the white necks of the pre-sunburnt loves,
Let the Hooters ballgirls wear larger ballgloves.
He was my y'know, my yup, my gon' and hit,
My playoff push and my offseason mitt,
My April, my August, my November, all season long;
I thought that drawl would last for ever: I was wrong.
The vets are not wanted now: release every one;
Ship out Mike Young; unmanufacture the run;
Pour away the Yuengling and pack up the tykes.
For Charlie Manuel has been run over by trikes.