[On thinking about the Mets and re-reading Dante’s Inferno. Also, I’m not going to try to mimic Dante’s 11 syllable terza rima, which I’m sure will disappoint blazon, if he’s still reading, but I will go with a simple iambic pentameter with the same rhyme scheme. I should add that I don’t really want to see anyone get hurt, though if it’s a Boras client we couldn’t afford my surface indifference can run pretty deep.]

On entering the ninth and final tier

I found the guys whose bosses had to pay

Their salaries despite their lack of gear.

Their status listed always “day to day”

Their ailments crippling all but bank accounts

While Wilpons wrote so many checks as may

Be needed (though some had a Madoff bounce)

So enter Steven Cohen, hedge fund king,

The old Mets model finally renounced

“I’ll pay them all and win the Mets a ring.

As long as they can leave the training room,

The Mets will win at last… Yes that’s a thing.”

But here in this ninth circle hall of gloom

Was old Mo Vaughn on knees in cold ice pack

And Jose Reyes hammy… no more zoom.

And David Wright’s stenosis in his back.

And now Correa’s knocking on the door

A twelve year stint: No Joke. Is Steve on crack?

Quoth Casey Stengel in jest: “Please no more.”