Love and the Chicago Cubs
are essentially the same thing:
a lot of people root for them
but they will never win.

Dress them up in royal blue,
for corporate picnics in July;
fine playthings in the summer months,
that no one, in their right mind, would swear by.

Blame the pitching, blame the fates,
blame the fan in left;
breathe your windy reasons,
October will do the rest.

The young put flags on bedroom walls,
and believe most lustily,
They’re wrong, of course, as ballads and odes are wrong,
and dreams of the sea.

The world is full of Yankee fans
who chuckle from their perch;
LA has a side or two,
but they prefer to surf.

Boorish Boston deflates our hearts
with its Horatio Alger story;
while the Cards out in St. Louis
are passionate about pronunciation.

O winning, it is beautiful,
winning, it is huge;
the world needs someone to claim the gold
above the Jamaican luge.

But love and the Chicago Cubs,
are e’er the world’s sweetest sounds,
and if one should win it all this year,
there’ll still be the Cleveland Browns.