Twas' the night before Winter meetings


'Twas the night before Winter meetings, when all through the intertubes

Not a SSS’er was stirring, not even the newbs;

A white stocking was hung by his big hairy balls with care,

In hopes that Prince Fielder soon would be here;

The drunks are nestled all passed out on their floors,

While visions of WAR danced in their skulls;

And 2ndhalfadjustments in his 'kerchief, and Kenwo in his Affliction,

Had just settled down for a long winter's DH quandary conniption,

When out at the Cell there arose such a clatter,

Cheat arose from his basement to see what was the matter.

he saw larry, HSA and U-God brandishing pitchforks,

with a gaggle of palid SSSers  each shaking a lit torch.

The moon on the breast of a plump vegetarian DH

Gave the promise of RBI’s even though the stat causes heartache,

When, what to my bloodshot oculus should appear,

But a penny-pinching Jew, and a brash general manageer,

With a little Venezuelan manager, so lively and merry,

I knew in a moment it must be St. Jerry.

More rapid than Punto, his naysayers they came,

And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;

"Now, T-Dogg! now, Shoeless! now, e-gus and SouthsideExpat!

On, Teahenny! on Chiburb! on, WU and craigws!

To the top of the division! to the top of the league!

Now watch us pitch away! hit away! run away all!"

As dry comments that before the wild internetz fly,

When they meet with an obstacle, grab facts from the sky,

So up to the Cell-top the naysayers they flew,

With the sleigh full of replacement players, and St. Jerry too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard in the bullpen bar

The bitching and moaning of each little maw

As the Twain paid millions for unproven Japanese

Down the concourse St. Jerry came praying to his God on his knees.

He was dressed all in fur and gold, from his head to his toes,

But his thoughts were all tarnished with possible cellar-dwelling bros;

For a bundle of also-ran players he mortgaged the future,

And he looked like a Fred Wilpon but less of a butcher

His eyes -- how they were beady! his doublechin did sag!

His DH was shitty, and they were not bringing back Mags!

His hawks nose was drawn up all snooty in the air,

And the beard of Kotsay was given 2 million but from the bench he would stare;

For the big stick was signed away from the nation’s capital,

And the  meth smoke it encircled the southside  like a wreath of crystal;

He strikes out a bunch and belts lots of homers,

His OBP gives colintj many boners.

Kenwo is happy because he is big and white and hits the ball far,

but when he K’s in the clutch SSSers will feather and tar;

The crack of the bat and the snap of the mitt,

The handwringing and second guessing, bit by bit

has been replaced by the heat of the offseason stove;

We still have a chance to contend in 2011 by jove!,

The Twain will spend on players who weren’t taught the Twain way,

Their grind, their luck, their small ball will all go away;

Ozzie will guide a rag-tag group to the playoffs,

Despite what the media says about a team full of jagoffs.

But I heard St. Jerry exclaim, as he drove out of sight,

See you in Spring Training and then everything will be alright!

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