Sunday, January 17, 2010

Barry at Bat

With due apologies to Phin and his original poem. In anticipation of President Obama's visit to the great state of Massachusetts I give you my reworked version.

The outlook wasn't brilliant for the Obamville Nine this day;
The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play,
And then when Corzine died at first, and Deeds did the same,
A sickly silence fell upon the patrons of the game.
A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest
Clung bitterly to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast;
They thought, if only Barry could get but a whack at that -
We'd put up even money, now, with Barry at the bat.
But Coakley preceded Barry, as did also Billy Clinton,
And the former was a lulu and the latter was a rake;
So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat,
For there seemed but little chance of Barry's getting to the bat.
But Coakley let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,
And Clinton, the much despis-ed, tore the cover off the ball;
And when the dust had lifted, and the men saw what had occurred,

There was Billy safe at second and Coakley a-hugging third.
Then from 500 throats and more there rose a lusty yell;
It rumbled through the stands, it barely rattled in the dell;
It knocked upon the mountain and fell flat upon the flat,
For Barry, mighty Barry, was advancing to the bat.
There was ease in Barry's manner as he stepped into his place;
There was pride in Barry's bearing and a smile on Barry's face.
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his UN hat,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Barry at the bat.
One thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt;
Five hundred tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt.
Then while Curt Schilling ground the ball into his hip,
Defiance gleamed in Barry's eye, a cool sneer curled Barry's lip.
And now the leather-covered sphere camgd e hurtling through the air,
And Barry stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
Close by the slim batsman the ball unheeded sped-
"That ain't my style," said Barry. "Strike one," the umpire said.
From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,
Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore.
"Kill him! Kill the umpire!" shouted Ed Schultz on the stand;
And it's likely they'd a-killed him had not Barry raised his hand.

With a smile of faux charity great Barry's visage shone;
He stilled the rising tumult like he did the rising seas; he bade the game go on;
He signaled to Curt, and once more the spheroid flew;
But Barry still ignored it, and the umpire said, "Strike two."
"Fraud!" cried the maddened union hundreds, and echo answered fraud;
But one condescending look from Barry and the audience was awed.
They saw his face grow aloof and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
And they knew that Barry wouldn't let that ball go by again.
The sneer is gone from Barry's lip, his teeth are clenched in shock;
He pounds with frustrated violence his bat upon the plate.
And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,
And now the air is shattered by the force of Barry's blow.
Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright;
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,
And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout;

But there is no joy in Obamaville— mighty Barry has struck out.

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