Enter POSEY
ROWAND
O that we now had here
But one more hit with RISP in San Francisco
That we’d be up 2-0 to-day!
O that we now had here
But one more hit with RISP in San Francisco
That we’d be up 2-0 to-day!
KING POSEY XXVIII
What’s he that wishes so?
My teammate Wallnoseand? I ain’t havin’ it, my fair-to-poor cousin:
If we are mark’d to lose, we’ll pitch well enow
To Torture the McCoven; and if to live,
The fewer runs, the greater share of honour.
God’s will! I pray thee, wish not one run more.
By Jove, I am not covetous for series sweeps,
Nor care I who doth jump on or off my bandwagon;
It yearns me not if men my jerseys wear;
Such outward things dwell not in my desires:
But if it be a sin to covet a storybook World Series run,
I am the most offending soul alive.
No, faith, my schnozz, wish not a win from Game Two:
God’s peace! I would not lose so great an honour
As one easy win more, methinks, would share from me
For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more!
Rather proclaim it, Wallnoseand, through my locker room,
That Guillen, who hath no stomach to this fight,
Let him depart; his passport shall be made
And the Royals’ money for convoy put into his purse:
We would not lose in that man’s company
That fears his fellowship to lose with us.
This day is called the feast of Clarkian:
Fans that outlive this day and the next, and see us come safe home,
Will stand a tip-toe when the day is named,
And rouse them at the name of Clarkian.
The fan Tortured these next two days, yet sees the NLCS,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,
And say ‘To-morrow is Saint Clarkian:’
Then will he strip his sleeve and show the spot Huff was HBP by Farnsworth.
And say ‘that was in a scoreless game with the bases loaded on Clarkin’s day.’
Old men forget: yet all shall be forgot,
But fans will remember with quickly-deleted YouTube videos
What feats we did that day: then shall our names.
Familiar in their mouths as household words
Posey the king, Burrell and Torres,
Wilson and Romo, Sanchez and Bumgarner or possibly Lincecum,
Be in their flowing microbrews freshly remember’d.
This story shall the good fan teach his son;
And Clarkin Clarkian shall ne’er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remember’d;
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that wins this game with me
Shall be my brother; though he yells that a woman’s pussy is jealous,
This day shall gentle his condition:
And pessimist fans in San Francisco now a-bummin’
Shall think themselves accursed they were not watching us here,
And hold their manhoods as cheap as we do Favre’s whiles any speaks
That cheered for us upon Saint Clarkin’s day.
Re-enter BOCHY
What’s he that wishes so?
My teammate Wallnoseand? I ain’t havin’ it, my fair-to-poor cousin:
If we are mark’d to lose, we’ll pitch well enow
To Torture the McCoven; and if to live,
The fewer runs, the greater share of honour.
God’s will! I pray thee, wish not one run more.
By Jove, I am not covetous for series sweeps,
Nor care I who doth jump on or off my bandwagon;
It yearns me not if men my jerseys wear;
Such outward things dwell not in my desires:
But if it be a sin to covet a storybook World Series run,
I am the most offending soul alive.
No, faith, my schnozz, wish not a win from Game Two:
God’s peace! I would not lose so great an honour
As one easy win more, methinks, would share from me
For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more!
Rather proclaim it, Wallnoseand, through my locker room,
That Guillen, who hath no stomach to this fight,
Let him depart; his passport shall be made
And the Royals’ money for convoy put into his purse:
We would not lose in that man’s company
That fears his fellowship to lose with us.
This day is called the feast of Clarkian:
Fans that outlive this day and the next, and see us come safe home,
Will stand a tip-toe when the day is named,
And rouse them at the name of Clarkian.
The fan Tortured these next two days, yet sees the NLCS,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,
And say ‘To-morrow is Saint Clarkian:’
Then will he strip his sleeve and show the spot Huff was HBP by Farnsworth.
And say ‘that was in a scoreless game with the bases loaded on Clarkin’s day.’
Old men forget: yet all shall be forgot,
But fans will remember with quickly-deleted YouTube videos
What feats we did that day: then shall our names.
Familiar in their mouths as household words
Posey the king, Burrell and Torres,
Wilson and Romo, Sanchez and Bumgarner or possibly Lincecum,
Be in their flowing microbrews freshly remember’d.
This story shall the good fan teach his son;
And Clarkin Clarkian shall ne’er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remember’d;
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that wins this game with me
Shall be my brother; though he yells that a woman’s pussy is jealous,
This day shall gentle his condition:
And pessimist fans in San Francisco now a-bummin’
Shall think themselves accursed they were not watching us here,
And hold their manhoods as cheap as we do Favre’s whiles any speaks
That cheered for us upon Saint Clarkin’s day.
Re-enter BOCHY
(Stolen shamelessly from McCovey Chronicle's poster, WhereThere'sAWIllieThere'sAMays)
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