Eighty Five Years

Oh poor Red Sox!

What you force us to endure!

Our hopes, our dreams, build until every October,

then shatter once you fail to make the playoffs.

You would expect us to know better,

but we will never leave your side.

What are good friends for?

And know that we would choose no other above you.

Not even the Yankees,

the hated team whose fans we torment at every game.

Each year you lose makes us want our team to win more.

With each loss the drunk fans covered in splintered peanut shells soaked with beer become fiercer.

Our red passion rages as the Sox cannot quite come back for the millionth time this season.

If you were to win the World Series,

would it do us any good?

We could no longer lament our beloved losing team.

Should I choose for you to lose?

Oh, how those Red Sox give me the blues!