World Series

Mummies and skeletons don’t alarm me.
I don’t think vampires mean to harm me.
Spiders and waterbugs I can stomp.
I’m not afraid of an ogre’s chomp.
Monsters and aliens may exist;
I think I’m something they would resist.
Only one thing gives me the willies:
Cliff Lee, the pitching ace of the Phillies.

Cooler than cool’s how he appears;
Doesn’t acknowledge applause or jeers.
Working with quicker than lightning speed,
If he had some clones we could just concede;
For every last Yankee he did dispatch –
And how ‘bout that reach-behind-grabbing catch?
His pitching is pure, like a work of art;
His presence strikes fear in each Yankee heart.

But now that I’ve said this, I must admit
I haven’t lost hope, not one single bit,
For we’ll be at home now to play game six,
And others will pitch without Cliff Lee’s tricks.
He’ll sit in the dugout, where he will watch,
Helpless to chalk up another notch.
Now I can breathe easy and cheer and yell,
Since the Yankees won’t be under Cliff Lee’s spell.

So Phillies, prepare: Yankees will be crowned
‘Cause our own Mariano will take the mound!