Speaking of POEMS......

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The Evil Empire has fallen and the Yankees have lost,
Steinbrenner, it seems, cannot afford the cost.
All their millions could not buy an ALCS win,
Now the Yankees have lost; let the celebrations begin!

The stage was set for an ALCS sweep,
Unfortunately, the bullpen would not go that deep.
What happened to A-Rod; he went 0-4?
Jeter got a hit, couldn't he get a few more?

Too bad that Kevin Brown had to punch a wall.
He was pulled after two, with no command of the ball.
A grand slam by Damon brought a tear to my eye,
It felt like the heavens had fallen from the sky.

Bellhorn was clutch, he had a pitch to hit, too,
He skied it to right, and the Yankees' fans booed.
Big Papi's the man, he got another home run,
D. Lowe was perfect; New York fans were stunned.

The Yankees' pitchers did not live up to their stats.
They didn't have enough for the Red Sox bats.
The Bronx bombers efforts just weren't enough,
Red Sox Nation is just too tough.

Down 0-3, history was made,
The Sox stood strong, they were not afraid.
Walk off after walk off, the Red Sox prevailed,
Their bullpen and lineup caused the Yankees to fail.

The loss last year made this victory sweeter,
Even their captain couldn't save 'em, stupid Derek Jeter.
The Sox reversed the curse from 1918,
This year they've shown us, they really are the team. The house that Ruth built has fallen to dust,
55,000 fans were finally shushed.
For the Yankees fans this poem is painful to read,
We'll say, "were just idiots! You just gotta believe."
 

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A New Day: Red Sox 2004 World Champions

The ghosts come forward from the Green
Monster like angels in the Field
of Dreams—that lunar eclipse that lasted
eighty-six years has finally been healed
by Damon, Schilling, and the rest.
Our liberty was manifest
when a homer in the first
approached the elemental moon
shattering prehistoric curses
turning night to afternoon.
That’s Johnny Pesky there in left
with Billy Buckner, both bereft
at last of any error, flaw,
or fault with which they were accused.
Bill Lee’s eephus pitch is pardoned;
Calvin Schiraldi is excused.
Mike Torrez doesn’t have a Bucky
bleeping thing to feel unlucky
for. And Ed Armbrister who?
The great Jim Lonborg now can rest
for more than just two meager days
and Grady Little has been blessed
with instantaneous absolution.
There’s been another revolution
here in Boston. Earth has turned
around; the moon is full and clear.
Black holes are turning into stars
within the Red Sox hemisphere.
Horizons find new curvature—
the Red Sox of two-thousand-four.
 

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