Manny, Manny, quite contrary,
Keep those dreads, your face is scary.
Hickory, dickory dock,
The Rays are still leadin’ the Sox,
They didn’t get Bay,
Or trade guys away,
But da league still swings from their jocks.
Chase and Jimmy went up the hill,
Each wit’ two mil and a quarter.
Jimmy came down hittin’ .250.
(That f–kin’ hack…)
New manager Jerry,
Used his Blackberry,
To try and find Johan some wins.
But no one called Omar,
So the bullpen’s still fubar,
And Santana is missin’ the Twins.
Little Boy Drew,
He’s earnin’ his money!
Griffey ain’t Red,
He ain’t Mariner blue,
But he’s headin’ to da playoffs,
Tell Cincy to go screw.
Little Josh Hammy
Is still feelin’ clammy
About a possible MVP snag.
His team’s still concerned,
Now dat dey learned
He warms up wit’ a ten dollar bag.
Jorgey Porgey, on the DL,
Out for da year, must hurt like hell,
When you limp back in 2009,
Pudge’ll make sure you’re still third in line.
Peter, Peter, Oriole leader,
Take a chance, sign the cheater.
Without Bonds, your birds are dead,
The “O” should stand for “oversized head.”
Larry has a little cramp,
Atlanta’s losin’ while you heal,
Use this time to knock up your wife,
And name it “Citi Field.”
Your turn. Make me proud.