Post-Game V:

As the drought nears a terminus with a heavy storm quenching some thirst
Epstein’s cult of personality ditch witches towards a city’s will to power
To decide if this rogue fraternity is counteracted by actual brotherhood
Is to suggest that the sacrifice of tradition to the headwinds of analysis
Might be reckoned with

Aware of the stillness vibrating behind their embrace of fatalism
CJ’s stuff while anorexic still descends to the base of Wrigleycow
Four rounds of nine yield to the stomach churning nothings
And the pendulum of confidence does blade the flesh of courage
Tonight of course signaling the shifting momentum

Back in July the underbelly was exposed to reveal bullish pent up anxiety
But the new god Chappy was acquired to blow through the Lastman’s wall
Now the savory release from sauerkraut and deep dish dreams of forgetting
The pain of over a century of hoping for something that despite being nothing
Actually does matter

Little boys spitting big league chew on seeds know not to step on chalk
As Kris was groomed for true life longevity despite the corporate whiff of the game
Most valued players express for men the heartache of acne scarred rejection
To throwing err on the side of instinct instead of the holistic approach
Head games with verve

Pre-Game VI:

Sitting among bleachers stretching a country mile with identical two eyed faces
Our Billy goat contracted Ricketts when the lion demanded he listen to a voice
Spawning a creature who broke down and wept as result of your indoctrination
Fielding a ball that pulls you back from the post haste financial complex
Is how they would describe it

When asked how to study correctly we were told to review the scouting report
Anticipating game seven Hendricks denies the Dragon’s scale of thou shalt be cerebral
But even the shadows of those who proselytize about how statistically we can prevail
Ignite the hope of victory as something even sweeter than we could have imagined
Shared ecstasy among the clan

Tonight our line up remains as if plucked from late September
May the Schwarbs be with you an arbitrary creation of a juiced Ruth in the making
Then again to embrace the spectacle as fact is to place bliss at the feet of ignorance
Wait till next years smell of fresh cut grass leveling the playing field
Between fairness and her cheating sins of ambition

Collective fatigue in the kingdom now reigns over the sweet boredom of summer classics
However loose Joe keeps it can he try not to suck away the priority of planning for joy
So many platitudes and clichés only deconstruct the faceless unoriginal athlete
By which a new appreciation springs forth to re-energize the purist fantasy
Held fast by Gehrig’s millennial sons

Post elimination Murphy’s law throw down Jaeger shots with Sandburg’s ghost
Ben decided it was cool for Mrs. Screams with delight to foster the requisite jealousy
For long time fellas miming along with muscle memory not only to catch but
To steal away the reserves of energy needed for a lifetime of celebration
To forget the work needed to move on to the next one

Post-Game VII:

So it’s here but what will happen since most of us exist as fair weathered folly
Removed from the spotlight unlike body by Jake as an effectively wild Overman
Digging for the daily courage to approach cautiously optimistic video reviews
About the chances of mildly corrupted secrecy to defeat coldly brazen brutality
For at least the next four years

Another marathon commissioned by the brass entreat their chattel to drink freely
Of the diet only fit for the 22-year-old baby faced but not yet baby man Russell
Eleven hurlers meant we were treated to advertisements only extinguishing
A semblance of the burning core from whence this game ignited real passions
Capable of delivering lasting peace

Instead of a tutor saying runs not points the student becomes his equal
To share in the vicarious Heyward bound pep talk to reckon with the emptiness
Now raining on a city bereft of curses encouraged by a mythology of rapists
Cruising Buell Avenue Joliet John smells sausage in the Polish backyards
Of working Slivovitz class heroes

Hours gone by yield to twittering parade accounts of varying detail and frequency
Machismo might inhibit the tribe but Javy’s iteration reconstructs the boorish camel
South siders don’t take comfort in their guaranteed rate but implore their neighbors
To remember the powdery graphite in Chiraq hover’s desperately despite
The Cubbies winning the World Series

Regrouping to remember those first moments of is this bliss happening stillness
We guess it doesn’t matter if Lester’s yips were brought in 9000 years too early
Only to have them materialize at the wrong plate at his adoring public’s dime
With so many wholesome blonde gals with flawless catholic skin willing to stand
By their prepster Highland Park Yo-Yos

Perhaps you had a friend named Rigo stop by to say it was a sure thing in the third
Only to need grampa Rossy bail him out of his left-footed lies of Montejo
Wisdom of middle aged men is still respected by t-shirt wearing adolescents
If only the talking head pundits so entrusted to give 40 million people the scoop
Would shut up like Scully

As unfortunate as fatigue directs energy to the sidelines instead of the finish line
At least we have Rizzo to shadowbox our spirits into something like motivation
For grievances long past should be forgiven on the spot of occurrence
Lest they fester for an eternity betrayed by the fact of the matter that
Five or six generations never witnessed the Transit of Venus either