How do the Mets lose,
Let me count the ways
Whether it's dropped fly balls that fall from prodigious heights,
Or whether it's men stranded at third, home plate nowhere in sight.
For the ends of existence and loss of Grace,
I love my Mets, regardless of thy pennant race.
Whether they lose by day, twilight, or midnight
The way they blow it, it doesn't seem Wright.
How they continue to lose thine way, I'll never know,
Unfortunately, watching their foibles, it's quite a show.
I love thee freely, regardless of loss,
As for the Yankees, I could give a toss,
I love thee with every ball dropped,
As I watched, out of the mitt it popped.
For the second night in almost as many days,
A gold glove fielder continued the malaise.
I love thee with a love, win or lose,
With every missed base, with every missed tag,
When I was six, I decided to choose,
Why the Mets? Sometimes it's a drag.
Liberally borrowed from Elizabeth Browning.
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