Alas, disheartedly we ring the bell!
On Twenty Twenty One a season lost
I fear a fouler stench is hard to smell
Than expectations burnt in sunken cost
In Eighty two, potential, poked and teased
That we might have a hope in mid October
In Eighty, veteran bats gasped and wheased
and year old ales on bench would keep us sober.
I'm forced to hope we won the long term game
And trash this season with our other blips
No way next season could end up the same!
Andt hey, at least we outperformed our ZiPs
Adieu! We tried! This year, our fate is sealed
God please next year give us a centerfield.