The Mets: A Poem

Its not that we mind coming to town

While the world of the Mets has turned upside down.

As their players are wounded,

Or hit in the head,

Or falling down steps,

Or possibly dead.

I remember the days when we were both at the top.

When we both had great defense,

And all our bats still had “pop.”

Our division was home

To two teams, not one

That could taste the post season,

And were still having fun.

As we stepped in and out of each other’s way,

Swapping turns in first place,

It seemed to change by the day.

“Did we win?!  Did they lose?!” we’d wake up and ask.

All through the summer, a continual task.

And then, one day, the Mets threw in the towel.

“Playoffs?!  No thanks!” they said, with a growl.

“We’d rather be home all winter, you see.

We’re fine watching you guys play on the TV.”

And watch us they did, with hate in their hearts,

As we went to the playoffs…and blew it from the start.

The next year, we stomped them, and came home as the best.

“We’ll get you next year!” the Mets screamed.  “It’s our quest!”

As our rivals, we hate them, and beating them’s fun.

But what can we do if we’re still number one?

And the Mets won’t stop losing, or hurting themselves,

As more and more trophies go up on our shelves.

Its just not the same to run up the score,

To strike out the side,

Its now just a bore.

Come on guys, at least try.

There’s nothing to fear.

They suck in Chicago, but they’re still throwing beer.

I guess its just different

From their side of the fence.

What would we do

If everybody was tense?

If Ryan was crippled, and Chase had a cold,

And Shane broke his pelvis, and Raul knew he was old.

Would we still be the offensive team of the East?

Would we still have our trophies, or would our luck be deceased?

It’s a tragic story, this year for the Mets,

With all of their fans losing all of their bets.

But I can’t say I’m sorry,

Just that it really sucks,

That when we sweep you next week,

It’s thanks to your luck.