'Twas the night before Jithmas, when all through the house
Not a Jith'er was stirring, not even a mouse;
The free agents were listed on MLBTR with care,
In hopes that St. Ross soon would be there;
The fans were nestled all snug in their beds,
Visions of hitting piss-missiles danced in their heads;
And the masses in their Jays Jersey, and I in my Jays nightcap,
Had just settled down for a long off season's nap,
When out of the dome there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the interwebs I flew like a flash,
Tore open the browser and booted up the cybertrash.
Mark and Ross both said, "Let's double down on last year"
Forget the luster of Ohtani, we won't shed a tear.
Defense, defense, that's what we will leverage,
And a miniature offense, and nine tiny averages.
That little old GM, so boring and dross,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Ross.
More vapid than plain yogurt his doubters they came,
And they cursed, and shouted, and called him insane;
"Now, VLADDY! now, Barger! now, SPRINGER and BICHETTE!
On, ERNIE! on CLASE! on, VARSHO and BASSITT!
"To the top step of the dugout!" He giggled, "Hit it over the wall!
Now bludgeon away! bludgeon away! bludgeon them all!"
With more wry smiles than before, the man had no shame,
He met with an agent, who even Morosi could name,
Out to the winter meetings he flew,
And with a bag full of cash, they lost out on Juan too.
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the net
The prancing and pawing of another middle infielder get.
I drew in my head, and pulled it out of my ass,
Down the twittersphere St. Ross came with a glass.
He was dressed all in all khaki, from his head to his feet,
And his clothes were all pressed, he seemed like a geek;
A bundle of cash he had flung at the wall,
But he looked like a pisstank walking out of a stall.
His eyes -- how they looked dead! his dimples not there!
His cheeks were furry, his chin, not quite square!
His dumb little mouth was drawn up with a frown,
And rest of his face, he just looked like a clown;
The calculations were sound, we don't need a thumper, the proof is right there,
Just give me more gloves, I'll put them somewhere;
Teoscar who? Don't talk to me, I've spoke with the Prez,
Give me someone who can't hit, get me Andrés Giménez!
He was dumpy and plain, a right stiff old geezer,
People laughed when they saw him, he's just a Ross pleaser;
A wink of his eye and a twist of his ring,
Ten minutes of speaking, not saying a thing;
Then he spoke not a word, but went back to his "work",
And shit out a roster; he was such a jerk,
And laying his finger aside of his glasses,
"I know better than all of these other GM asses";
He ran to his Tesla, his team destined for last place,
And everyone knew before June, they'd be out of the race.
But I heard him exclaim, before he drove over the pass,
"SCREW YOU SMASHER, WE'RE NEVER GETTING GRASS!"
