Take down the bunting.
Launder the flannels one last time.
Feed the remaining wieners to the hogs,
And un-tap the kegs of ale.
Pack up the leather and horsehide.
Incinerate the hexed ash-clouts.
Shoot out the lights and let the turf go dormant,
For base-ball is ended at the Fens.
Muffle the drums and silence the Rooters’ chorus.
Roll up the pennants with a bracing of naphthalene.
Lock the turnstiles behind the last exiting man,
And sweep the discarded score-cards into the ash-heap.
Lay in a quantity of Duffy’s.
Pull up a chair to the hot stove.
Brood on the fates of the Captain and the Colossus,
For today, the Bostons have fallen.
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