The sweet green grass, the roaring crowd,
A perfect picture of serenity.
But here she comes, chatting on her cell phone loud,
The Wrigleyville Trixie – An Elegy.
Out of place is the sound that her heel
Makes on the concrete past me.
Using a napkin holder as a mirror with zeal,
On the prowl is the Wrigleyville Trixie.
Wasn’t carded for beer to her chagrin.
Crows’ feet are hard to hide under her pixie.
She jiggles in a Cubs tank all sequin.
Looking tired is the Wrigleyville Trixie.
Lilly, DeRosa, Fukudome, Zambrano
Couldn’t pick them out in a line up, oh gee.
Soto, Theriot, Dempster, Soriano
Stop asking when’s "Halftime", Wrigleyville Trixie!
I’m not trying to attack another female.
She’s entitled to enjoy the game with a couple of beers.
But flirting? Dancing? You ask her to sit with no avail.
She herself is setting back feminism 10 years.
As she focuses less on the game than her tan,
By the seventh inning, she’s buzzed as can be.
She’s no better than a L.A. Dodger fan
As she leaves early to beat traffic – the Wrigleyville Trixie.
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