An Ode to a Waggle


No, no, go not to Boston, nor lose that twist
glove waggling, spinning, confusing the swine;
Nor allow thy stats to suffer away from Wrigley mist,
By dollar signs, and contract time;
Make not your bed of 75% cotton, 25% linen, all green,
Nor let the batter assuage his fears.
Your fancy whimsy Waggle, and split finger change,
Are all a function of some forgotten dream;
For age comes to all pitchers, and not too drowsily —
To drown the wakeful anguish of the soul.

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Graphs: Baseball, Roto, Beer, brats (OK, no graphs for that...yet), repeat. Follow him on Twitter @enosarris.

2 Responses to “An Ode to a Waggle”

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  1. maxamuz says:

    A true poet.

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  2. Mr. Observant, Viking Mead Connoisseur says:

    Methinks the mead of Old Vinland has addled the wits of the penner of said ode… and nice usage of the adverbial form of drowsy!

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