'Twas the night before Game 7, and all through the Hub,
Not a ballplayer was stirring, not even a scrub.
Their bats were all honed by the twilight with care
In hopes that Victory on the morrow be there.
The fans were all sleepless, not snug in their beds,
'Cause visions of Buckner danced in their heads.
And Grandpa in his jersey and I in my cap
Had just settled down, vainly to nap.
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
We sprung from our beds to see what's the matter.
Away to the window we flew like a flash
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
The moon in the sky behind the oak tree
Cast a glow of midday on all we could see.
And to our amazement, who should appear?
But the ghost of Bambino, his uniform unclear.
My grandpa turned white, this is the truth.
I rubbed my eyes and looked on Babe Ruth!
Solemnly he spoke, telling the reason he came,
"I was sold to the Yankees and that was a shame."
"First Shore and Lewis, the first one to go,
Next Leonard and Mays, but then came the blow.
The Babe has been sold, and all you will get,
Is one hundred thousand and 'No No Nannette.'
"They loved me in Beantown, it was so plain to see,
So clear to them all but Harry Frazee.
He needed the greenbacks to put in his purse,
And from that day forward you've suffered my Curse!
"You know the story, the long book of woe,
It started with Pesky when he held the throw."
My grandpa coughed and went for some water,
His throat had gone dry thinking of Slaughter.
"Galehouse and McCarthy, so goes the tale,
Caused many a schoolboy to wonder and wail.
Onward they toiled to that 'Impossible' trance,
Just to face Gibson, he gave them no chance.
"It was getting such a bore that I threw in some tricks,
Like that glorious night known to all as 'Game Six.'
With Fisk I gave you a moment of glee,
But, alas, 'twas Johnson who pulled Willoughby.
"A team should feel safe with such a great lead,
Yet August arrived and they started to bleed.
Take all prior visions, so twisted and bent,
Can they compare to the thought...Bucky Dent?!
"That this was so evil it was thought that the curse
Had drawn to its climax: '...It can't get no worse!'
But with no lessons learned they let go of Fisk,
They sent him away as if there's no risk.
"Now, I had only to surpass that moment of pain
To give you another no fan could sustain.
With one strike away, on the edge of your seat,
I gave you Bill Buckner and the ball through his feet.
"So why here in Boston should you not sleep,
Deprived of your victory, tommorrow to weep?
It's to remember the man who's caused you the guilt,
And to ask, 'Why wasn't Fenway the house that Ruth built?'"