Re: Hop on Pop
posted at 8/19/2011 12:47 AM EDT
(with apologies to Sir Edgar)
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten Sox lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping like Jay-Z at my Fenway door
"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my Fenway door
Only this tapper to the mound, and nothing more
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore.
"Though thy Sox crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Ray man wandering from the Nightly shore -
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"
Quoth the Crawford, "Can't hit no more."
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl ball to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning- little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blest with seeing Craw man above his Fenway door -
Craw man or beast upon the sculptured bust above his Fenway door,
With such frowning, he said, "Can't hit no more."
But the Crawford, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one phrase, as if his soul in that one phrase he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered- not a feather then he fluttered -
Till I scarcely more than muttered, "other friends have hit before -
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."
Then the Crawford said, "Can't hit no more."
Startled at the stillness broken bat by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy Ray master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his groundouts one burden bore -
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of Crawford saying, "Can't...Can't hit no more'"
And the Crawford, never hitting, still not sitting, still not sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my Fenway door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a Devil Rays that is dreaming,
And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws badly his sad bat on the floor;
And my soul from out that sad bat that lies floating like a beach ball
Shall be swung on -- "I told you, brotha, can't hit no more!!!!"