Text 24580, 76 rader
Skriven 2007-12-25 23:36:04 av RUTH HANSCHKA (1:123/140)
Ärende: OT: For all the baseball fans out there
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I wrote this for a local friend (who no doubt will not thank me for it). 
It was bad enough that I figured the baseball fans in the echo could not
thank me for it too. Non Sox fans may have to Google some of the
references.
______________________________ 

A Visit from Boston

T'was the night before Christmas
and all through the house
creature was waking
not even the bobblehead mouse.
Red stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
in hopes that St. Peskey soon would be there.
The children were nestled, all snug in their beds,
while visions of Monster seats danced in their heads.
And Ma in her rally kerchief, and I in my throwback cap,
had just settled down for a post-Season nap.
While out by the practice cage there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my bed to catch the post-midnight batter.

To the window I ran a 90-foot dash,
Pushed the double panes open with a bit of a crash.
Streetlights shown down on the new-fallen snow
lit up like light towers, the objects below.
When what to my sleep-deprived eyes should appear,
but a little golf cart, painted green like John Deere.
With a uniformed driver, past retirement ages,
I knew then St. Pesky was earning his wages.
Quick as a balk his mascots they came.
And he yodeled and yelled and called each one by name;

Now Phanatic, Mr. Met, Now Green Monster and Dinger,
On Gapper, on Youppi (making a post retirement comeback), On Chicken and
Slider!
Off the short right-field porch, over top of that wall,
Now swing away, swing away, swing away all!

Up past the double shingles, the mascots they flew,
the golf cart full of toys and St. John Pesky too.
And then in a jiffy I heard on my roof,
Mascots stomping and dancing the tango, forsooth!
As I drew in my head and was turning around,
Down the chimney, dunno how, Johnny came with a bound.

He was in uniform from his cap to his spikes,
Ashes all over the rug - what a cleaning bill. Yikes!
A bundle of swag he'd thrown over his back,
And he looked like a vendor just stocking his rack.
His eyes needed glasses, his back it was bent,
He breathed like a bellows, the silly old gent.
His wrinkled old mouth was drawn back in a grin;
I was wondering about the front office spin.... (How would they explain
this one!)

The stump of a bat he held tight in his hand,
the barrel'd gone flying - dunno where it could land.(Mike Piazza wasn't
there)
His face it was long and his stomach still flat,
He looked like a walking longevity stat.
He was checking for sparks, pulled his uniform straight,
Too late for neat points, John, at this date....
He gave me a wink and a shrug like "oh well",
"the head office called - had to answer the bell."

He spoke not a word, but went off to the tree,
plopped down boxes of presents; some were even for me!
After rubbing his hands and blowing his nose,
he gave me a nod.  Up the chimney he squoze. (OK, it's supposed to be
squeezed, but that doesn't rhyme)
He sprang to the golf cart, to the mascots he whistled,
and away they all went like a ballistic missile.
I could just hear him yell, as he rode out of sight,
"Merry Christmas you Sox fans!  Now put out that light!"
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