John Keats Padre fan?
I didn't know that when John Keats wrote Ode To A Grecian Urn that it had so many references to The Padres and baseball. THOU still unravish'd bride of quietness, Thou ringless foster-child of Silence and slow Time, Padre historian, who canst thus express A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme: What Friar-fringed legend haunts about thy shape Of deities or mortals, or of both, In spring oh Tempe or Yuma or Peoria the dales of diamondy? What men or gods are these? Perhaps Gwynn? What maidens loth? What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape? what lovely brown and yellow uniforms? What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy? Beating The Cubs in '84
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard God bless America in the 7th should be unheard Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on; Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd, Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone: Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave, but thou didst leave oh Bochy and Flan to winneth not one but two rings Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare; Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss, just ask Morganna and Nolan Ryan Though winning near home plate —yet, do not grieve; this game will break your heart She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss, For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair! Banging off a foul pole in left on the western metal supply side
Ah, happy, happy boughs! 1998 beating The Astros and besting The Braves that cannot shed The dreaded Yanks as Kevin Brown's gas tank runs out. Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu; And, happy melodist, Roseanne Barr's anthem unwearièd, For ever piping songs for ever new; hells bells of Hoffy oh love so loud in The Murph More happy love! more happy, happy love! Crackerjacks For ever warm hot dogs and cold lemonade still to be enjoy'd, For ever panting, and for ever young; All breathing human passion far above, That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd, like the '84 Tigers breaking my brown heart A burning forehead, and a parching tongue a name change from Murphy to Qualcomm
Who are these coming to the sacrifice? number 42? To what green altar, O mysterious priest of the diamond Lead'st thou that pinstriped heifer lowing at the skies, And all her silken flanks with garlands drest? What little town by river or sea-shore, or ocean pacific Or mountain-built with whale's vagina oh peaceful citadel, to build Petco and then fire sale. Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn? And, little town, thy streets for evermore gaslamped staying classy Will silent be; and not a soul, to tell for how many critics must die for The Padres to win Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.
O Diamondshape! fair attitude! with brede to not go foul pole Of marble men and maidens overwrought, With forest branches and magic bats and the trodden weed; Thou, silent form! dost tease us out of thought of ever winning a World Series As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral! When old age shall this generation waste, Knuckle ballers we needest thou You shalt remain, in midst of other woe a life empty of a ring, of celebratory fireworks. Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, 'Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all- beisbol eternal oh right winged John Birched up Eric Show. Oh Cammy oh Crime Dog oh Garvey borrowed from others to be bridesmaids. No Tinkers to Evers to Chance Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.' the gods have chosen and this game will smash your heart to smithereens