A World Series Poem

This was written by Jason Motte's glove, SirGloveAWilson:
Twas the night before the World Series, when all through the clubhouse
Not a player was stirring, not even a Lohse.
The championships were hung by the flagpoles with care,
In hopes that Bud Selig will soon put another one there.

The mascots were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of 3 run homers danced in their heads.
And La Russa in his glasses, and I on Jason’s hands,
Had just settled our minds for all the Cardinals Fans.

When out on the field there arose such a clatter,
It was Albert Pujols, our team’s best batter.
Away to the dugout I flew like a flash,
Made sure I was not where one of those balls crashed.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen sod
Gave the lustre of mid-day of this Glove’s great bod.
When, what to my two eyes should appear,
But a great ballclub who the Rangers should fear.

With Big Mac as a coach, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment he can still swing the stick.
More rapid than eagles his hitters they came,
And he flexed, and shouted, and called them by name!

"Now Descalso! now, Freese! now, Berkman and Craig!
On, Holliday! On, Punto! on, on Theriot and Jay!
To the top of the stands! to the top of the wall!
Now smash away! Crash away! Blast away all!"

As dry leaves that before the wild Adron Chambers flies,
When they meet with an obstacle, harder Don Tony tries.
So up to the ballpark the balls they flew,
With the bucket full of seeds, and and Cracker Jacks too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the speaker
Shannon and Rooney calling each Cardinal squeaker.
As I drew in my mitt, and was turning around,
Down the steps Fredbird came with a bound.

He was dressed all in feathers, from his claws to his head,
And his jersey was white with birds in Cardinal Red.
A bundle of Bats he had all in his hand,
And he looked like Stan Musial, or Stan the Man

His eyes-how they were round! his beak so yellow!
His hat was huge, his demeanor not so mellow!
His pointy little beak was drawn up like a gasp
In awe of the Machine’s sky scraping blasts!

The stump of a tree is what Pujols swings,
And when he hits one out, Shannon always Sings.
Get up get up, get out of here ball!
Out of the stadium, see you later, over the wall!

He was happy and jovial, a right jolly old man,
And I laughed when I saw him, because I know he’s a fan !
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Means a pickoff by Yadi, runner’s caught dead.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his room,
A sweep of Texas and we’ll bring out the broom.
And laying his hand on every ball game,
This manager is going to the Hall of Fame!

He sprang to his step, to his team gave a shout,
Game 1 is tomorrow; LEAVE NO DOUBT.
I heard him exclaim, yelled in all of his might,
"The World Series is ours, and it starts tomorrow night!"