Railing Away Each Time the Yankees Drop

The Yankees started badly: a timid four and eight,

And even for a cheaper team, it wouldn't have been great

To win just half of what they'd lost along the first two weeks...

But for two hundred million, fewer valleys and more peaks

Is no more than a man should feel he'll get for what he paid;

No wonder, then, the boss was sick at how his workers played.

He railed against the pitchers who had walked the opposition,

He pilloried the hitters, who provoked the supposition

From George that they were all complacent slackers, lazy clods,

Unworthy of the pinstripes that were s'posed to make them gods.

And did it work? The boss's call for winning? It worked great.

The Yankees jumped on Tampa Bay on Monday, 19-8.

They piled up twenty hits, got thirteen runs in just one inning,

An outburst that, no doubt, had George a few degrees from grinning.

New York was nothing short of an offensive baseball terror,

And in the field, the Yankees didn't make a single error.

Unless the win itself was a mistake. For could it be

That Jeter, A-Rod, Tino, and the rest will live to see

That they should not have made such a dramatic splash that day,

Directly after George had told the world they couldn't play

Like clowns and bums and dogs and dross content to cash their checks...

Like rookies yet to prove themselves, or broken-down old wrecks,

Because by whacking Tampa and by scoring nineteen times

Just hours after George had told the press that they were slime,

The Yankees have encouraged what the boss is known to do:

He whines, he fumes and threatens, and I guess it might be true

That if he comes to feel that all this fulmination works -

This railing, where he tells the world the Yankees are all jerks

Without sufficient brains to know that since they're paid a lot,

Their losing is embarrassing, and plainly it is not

A part of George's plan, which calls for excellence and more,

Despite the fact that George himself's a loud, bombastic bore,

He may feel he should rail away each time the Yankees drop

A game, and if he feels that way, he may not ever stop,

And Jeter, A-rod, Tino, and the rest may live to feel

That millions upon millions do not sweeten up the deal

Enough to make employment by the boss a player's dream,

And each may wake to wish he played for someone else's team.