Athletics Nation

[Original lyrics here.]

Oh, what have you strained, my white-cleated son?
Oh, what gave you pain, my hurling young one?
I’ve cheated the fans of fifty missed A’s mound starts,
I’ve walked less than I’ve struck out in eighty-six games,
I’ve stepped in the offices of unnumbered specialists,
I’ve been out of commission in three straight seasons,
I’ve been ten thousand miles to a Tokyo ballyard,
And it’s a canard (that means a duck)! He’s a Canuck! Warm up DiNard!
And Richard Harden’s a goner, y’all.

[Complete Poetic Interlude after the jump.]

Richard Harden’s a Goner, Y’All

Oh, what have you strained, my white-cleated son?
Oh, what gave you pain, my hurling young one?
I’ve cheated the fans of fifty missed A’s mound starts,
I’ve walked less than I’ve struck out in eighty-six games,
I’ve stepped in the offices of unnumbered specialists,
I’ve been out of commission in three straight seasons,
I’ve been ten thousand miles to a Tokyo ballyard,
And it’s a canard (that means a duck)! He’s a Canuck! Warm up DiNard!
And Richard Harden’s a goner, y’all.

Are your joints full of scree, my white-cleated son?
Will we watch you on tv, my hurling young one?
I saw Beane’s newborn babies with wild Wolffs all around ’em
I saw a weekend of diamonds with nobody watchin’,
I saw our black unis with fugly white lett’rin’,
I saw a team full of men with their bats all a-bleedin',
I saw some white labcoats wrapped ’round arm doctors,
I saw ten thousand A’s fans honkin’ their Stompers,
I saw Dot Races and Cap Capers distractin’ young children,
It’s a canard (that means a duck)! He’s a Canuck! Warm up DiNard!
And Richard Harden’s a goner, y’all.

Is it as bad as we fear, my white-cleated son?
Will the news singe our ears, my hurling young one?
I heard the hiss of the ThunderStix, the Halos deflatin’,
Heard the roar of the Wave that swept ’round the Coli,
Heard the left-field drummers whose hands were a-blazin’,
Heard ten thousand whisperin’ that I was injured again,
Heard one muscle strain, I heard ligaments a-poppin’,
Heard the song of a poet who thinks he’s a monkey,
Heard the sound of a clown with questions for askin’,
It’s a canard (that means a duck)! He’s a Canuck! Warm up DiNard!
And Richard Harden’s a goner, y’all.

Oh, who did you meet, my white-cleated son?
Which A’s did you greet, my hurling young one?
I met one Gonzalez who played center field,
I met a GM who walked a black-and-white dog,
I met a young woman who Blanton was licking,
I met a young Gio, who throws a sharp rainbow,
I met a non-Mexican who was wounded with Gold Gloves,
I met Chad Gaudin who was wounded with hair red,
It’s a canard (that means a duck)! He’s a Canuck! Warm up DiNard!
Richard Harden’s a goner, y’all.

Oh, what’ll we do now, my white-cleated son?
Oh, what’ll Beane do now, my hurling young one?
I’m a-goin’ back out ’fore my value starts a-fallin’,
I’ll warm up and stretch out my subscapularis,
For Detroit and Mets scouts though their farms are all empty,
Where the pallets of veterans have mortgaged their futures,
Where home’s Silicon Valley meets a suburban vision,
Where the majority owner’s face is always well hidden,
Where hunger is ugly, in all-you-can-eat land,
Where black is the color, four-oh is my number,
And I’ll throw fastballs and sliders and maybe a changeup
And the next time from the mound pain so bad I want to throw up,
Then I’ll shut down my season as soon’s I start flingin’,
But you all know this song well before I start singin’,
It’s a canard (that means a duck)! He’s a Canuck! Warm up DiNard!
Richard Harden’s a goner, y’all.