'Twas the night before Manny, and all through the ball park,
Not a creature was stirring, not even a McCourt;
The helmets were hung by the dugout with care,
In hopes that St. Dreadlock soon would be there;
Some fans were still parking, 15 bucks is tragic,
Vin Scully in the press box still doing his magic;
And Torre and Bowa, and oh what a tool,
Had just settled down for a long pitchers duel;
When out on the field there arose such a clatter,
Fans sprang from their seats to see who was that batter;
I opened my program to see who could it be,
Spilled peanuts and beer all over my knee;
The hills of LA lit up with Think Blue,
Gave the lure of a victory for this Dodgers crew;
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a messy dew, and eight tiny dreadlocks;
With a powerful swing, the sultan of sock,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Dreadlock;
More rapid than eagles his teammates they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;
"Now, Ehtier! now, Kershaw! now, Loney and Kemp!
On, Hudson! on Broxton! on, Furcal and Blake!
Don't hang him a curveball! Cuz this guy can just rake!
Now swing away! swing away! swing away all!"
As beach balls that before the east winds fly,
When they meet with an usher, Pop! And they die,
So out in the pavillion, where all ye can eat,
Nachos were spilling by young and old feet.
He kicked and he clawed and he dusted his cleats,
Giant fans were accustomed to these kind of cheats,
As I shouted and cheered, and was turning around,
Out of the dugout St. Dreadlock came with a bound.
He was dressed all in blue, from his head to his foot,
With his reputation all tarnished with ashes and soot;
A bundle of lumber he had flung on his back,
And he looked like an all-star just welcomed back.
His forearms -- how they rippled! his slugging percentage how plump!
Our chances of winning, just took a big jump.
His famous hairdew was tied up like a mop,
And the cheers from the crowd just would not stop;
The Louisville slugger he held in his grip,
You knew the first strike he'd let it rip;
He had a shy face and pants loose fittin,
Opposing pitchers made nervous he was always a hittin.
He was larger than life, very uncanny,
Fans had a saying, "That's Manny being Manny";
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave all fans a look of his dreads;
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And pounded the pitch, with a slap and a jerk;
And watching his hit, with a little bat flip,
Around the bases, home plate ended his trip;
He sprang to the dugout, to his team a high five,
And back for a curtain call, the fans all alive.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he walked out of sight,
"To hell with the Giants, and to all a good-night."
