A Poem, But the Real Thing

So I kind of jumped the gun in posting my poem. Below is the revised, and better version of it. All I can hope is that Carpenter gets on and reads it so that we have someone other than Miss "Baseball sucks and your poetry is like, totally weird." ;)

Mr. Cubs

In professional sports I know a team
Of players that are as exceptional as they seem.
No need have they of any revision,
They’re as one man without division.
Together they are known as Mr. Cubs;
No group of meager subs,
But he is one polished well
Enough that he can sell
Many tickets to his adoring fans.
And he smiles wide into the stands
So broadly and with teeth so white,
With jacket so clean and pressed so tight
That the crowd cheers just as loudly as it is able.
After seeing Mr. Cubs it surely won’t be brought to table
That at any point he would ever fall behind
His opponent. His fans never fail to remind
All who pass that he would
Almost never loose, and how could
His fans claim to be the ones to dictate
What other teams Mr. Cubs would eradicate?
So in their claims they must be right;
Their alibi surely has not a chink in sight.
Sadly, when the rout is difficult for Mr. Cubs
And there is not always a steaming bath in tubs
Before a game; when there is some pressure
He makes a most piteous gesture
To his fans; he cannot help but choke and splutter
When in a game of great and utter
Importance to those who pay to come and see.
They promised every game to win, but gee,
Who can begrudge them a loss or three when
Every last shoe on every foot has been
Polished up so very bright
And his toothy smile has been so white?
Mired in high expectations deep
They could do with a little sweep.
No matter what, the fans never loose their hope
And every year manage somehow to cope
With a little loss, because Mr. Cubs will
Promise so much every season to instill
High hopes in all who after him follow.
Whatever he says his fans seem to swallow.
With his good looks he can always do this,
And if he sometimes fails to keep a promise
It can always be glossed over;
Mr. Cubs knows the fans, and moreover
Knows they will never become mad
That he, once or thrice, did something bad.

After all, there always is next year
To fill with promises for all to hear.

Thus, I think this team must be the best
For it surely has no fault in truth or jest
For which one could justly bring him down.
Oh no, nothing that could ever make one frown.


The Owner, Heirron