(a drunken sonnet)
The forty thousand starting to arrive
On Sheffield, Waveland, Clark and Addison
Seem hardly bothered that they have not won
A pennant here since nineteen forty-five
Or that there’s almost nobody alive
Who still remembers losing only one
Game in their last World Series winning run,
A triumph younger players can’t revive.
These faithful souls bedecked in Cubby blue
Have numbed themselves to losing every spring
Through regular consumption of a large
Amount of Old Style, such a friendly brew
It lets them drown the score by bellowing:
Holy Cow! Da-da-da-da-da-daaaaaaa. Charge!
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