'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the Nation,
We waited for the results from Napoli's 12th hip examination
Our Red Stockings were hung in last place just last year,
Now the hope is Saint Farrell will lead a team we might cheer
Ben Cherington was nestled all snug in his bed,
Dreaming of free agent has-beens at $13 million a head;
And Werner in his ascot, and Henry's mind on The Kop,
Is there any doubt in your mind Boston's in for another flop?
When out on the web there arose such a clatter,
Did Lucchino make a deal? There's 500 tweets on the matter,
Away to Fenway we flew in a dash,
Tore open the laptop, camera ready to flash
Who's breaking the story? Who's the source in the know?
Has Jacoby been traded? Did they spend the Gonzo-deal dough?
When, what to our wondering eyes should appear,
But our old friend Johnny Damon, with a smile ear-to-ear
�He'll platoon with Gomes! In the clubhouse he'll click!�
We knew in a moment, it was Ben's latest cheap trick
More rapid than Valentine could light a flame and bring shame
Henry whistled, and shouted, he called them by name!
"Now Suarez! now, Gerrard! now, Shelvey and Sterling!
On, Allen! On, Agger! Carragher and Downing!
To the top of the table! On a striker I'll spend it all!
Who cares if the Red Sox won't be playing in the fall?�
They'll be cheering at Anfield, but at Fenway we'll cry
And while you are reading this, Ben signed another �nice guy�
It's a team full of dirt dogs and the brother of J.D. Drew
There's still not enough horses, but there's plenty of glue
And then, in a twinkling, he strolled to the mound,
The prancing and pawing of this hard throwing hound,
Laying his long finger aside of the seam
He stares just like Martinez� an impossible dream?
He spoke words in Spanish, and went straight to his work,
He went into his windup; then he turned with a jerk,
As he threw out his hand, and was coming around,
Down toward home plate, the ball took off with a bound;
He threw like the old Pedro, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment, Petey had the old kick;
His heater's mid-90s, the curve ball has bite,
Larry signed him up to pitch every fifth night!
And Lester and Buchholz came in focused and healthy
Lackey's ready to roll, and thanks to Theo he's wealthy
Dustin knows how we do things; Victorino knows what to say
And Farrell's got four catchers and two center fielders to play
Ellsbury stays on the field for his Boston goodbye
No more stars for us, but the payroll's still sky high
Papi had the old stroke back, when he hit 'em they flew,
Everyone batted around, the unnamed left fielder, too!
The crowd sprang to their feet, to the team gave a whistle,
Salty circled the bases, Dempster threw another missile;
A new year is upon us and the Olde Towne ballclub,
"Bridge Year be damned! PENNANT FEVER GRIPS HUB!"
...with apologies as always to Clement Clarke Moore and Henry Livingston, Jr.
Merry Christmas, Boston Dirt Dogs
