[On thinking about the Mets and re-reading Dante’s Inferno. Also, Iâ€™m not going to try to mimic Danteâ€™s 11 syllable terza rima, which Iâ€™m sure will disappoint blazon, if heâ€™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 â€œday to dayâ€
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
â€œIâ€™ll pay them all and win the Mets a ring.
As long as they can leave the training room,
The Mets will win at lastâ€¦ Yes thatâ€™s a thing.â€
But here in this ninth circle hall of gloom
Was old Mo Vaughn on knees in cold ice pack
And Jose Reyes hammyâ€¦ no more zoom.
And David Wrightâ€™s stenosis in his back.
And now Correaâ€™s knocking on the door
A twelve year stint: No Joke. Is Steve on crack?
Quoth Casey Stengel in jest: “Please no more.”