An Ode to Willy Taveras

In honor of the Rockies' erstwhile centerfielder Willy Taveras' abrupt departure from the Mile High City, I've taken time out of my "busy" schedule to honor this occasion with a bit of poetry. 

Onward, ho.

An Ode to Willy Taveras

Oh Willy Taveras, though your feet are fleet

To me, the bench holds your permanent seat

It's a shame you're not our problem anymore

For when you reached base, you would normally score

But therein lies the issues that be

Your two bum legs and .308 obp

As you flailed at pitches, Skip Hurdle turned terse

And filled out his lineup sans you hitting first

This irked you greatly, and doth you protest

That your stolen-base record placed you with the best

You came to the ballpark with your mind on a mission

But you still hit .204 with runners in scoring position

While Spilly was sparking an anemic offense

You were misjudging flies as you high-fived the fence

While we'll never forget your NLCS Game Two game-saver

The tastes in our mouths are not ones we will savor

Though your speed was electric and you possessed quite a burst

You forgot in the rule book that you can't steal first

So we had to part ways, what with the outfield youth

Climbing the ladder like George Michael Bluth

Like Santa's reindeer, we've got young guns to lead us

And it's so reminiscent of the Night Before Christmas

On Fowler, on Car-Gon, on Hawper and Smitty

On Stewart, on Tulo, on Atkins, and Spilly

So unfortunately Willy, your talent's not needed

But I'm sure that your hot stove will soon be reheated

When you face us as foe, I'm sure you'll be pissed

But just know that in Denver, your stats won't be missed

Fin.