Once upon a ballgame dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious Edgar highlight of forgotten lore—

While I nodded, nearly sleeping, suddenly there came a tweeting,

As of some one gently beating, beating at the Mariners Team Store.

“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “beating at the Mariners Team Store—

Only this and nothing more.”

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak September;

And each separate dying season wrought its ghost upon the floor.

Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow

From my seasons surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost ‘Lemore—

For the rare and radiant utility player who donned the number four—

For whom the Angels name our treasured Mark McLemore.

And the silken, rustling, mercy of each teal and navy jersey

Thrilled me—filled me with playoff implications never felt before;

So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating

“’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at the Mariners Team Store—

Some late visitor entreating entrance at the Mariners Team Store;—

This it is and nothing more.”

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,

“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, they already came for Andrew Moore;

But the fact is I was sleeping, and so gently you came tweeting,

And so faintly you came beating, beating at the Mariners Team Store,

That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;—

Darkness there and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,

Doubting, dreaming playoff dreams no Mariners fan ever dared to dream before;

But the silence was unwoken, and Félix had long been broken,

And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “‘Lemore?”

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “‘Lemore!”—

Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the Team Store turning, all my soul within me burning,

Soon again I heard a tweeting somewhat louder than before.

“Surely,” said I, “surely something standing at the Lookout Landing;

Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—

Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—

’Tis the Smoakamotive whistling and nothing more!”

Open here I did the roof, when, with many a comment in the broadcast booth,

In there stepped a stately Oriole of the saintly days of yore;

Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;

But, with mien of Powell or Ripken, perched above the Mariners Team Store—

Perched upon a bust of Griffey just above the Mariners Team Store—

Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this orange bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,

“Though thy playoff beard be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,

Grey and orange Oriole wandering from the eastern shore—

Tell me what thy lordly name is in the Yards of Baltimore?”

Quoth the Oriole “Nevermore.”

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hit dingers so inhumanely,

Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;

For we cannot help agreeing that no active franchise

Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above its own Team Store—

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust of Griffey above the Mariners Team Store,

With such name as “Nevermore.”

But the Oriole, sitting lonely on the golden bust, spoke only

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.

Nothing farther then he uttered—not another homer did it slugger—

Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other teams have lost before—

On the morrow he will leave me, as my playoff hopes have flown before.”

Then the bird said “Nevermore.”

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,

“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store

Caught from some unhappy franchise whom unmerciful losing seasons

Followed fast and followed faster till his games one burden bore—

Till the dirges of his playoff hopes that melancholy burden bore

Of ‘Never—nevermore’.”

But the Oriole still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,

Straight I wheeled a Gallardo in front of the bird, and Griffey bust and door;

Then, upon the pitching mound, I myself have found

Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and orange bird of yore

Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing

To the fowl whose fiery fastballs now burned into my lineup’s core;

This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining

On the pitching mound that the stadium-light gloated o’er,

But whose pitching mound with the stadium-light gloating o’er,

He shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, laden by a marine layer

But still swung on by Adam Jones whose foot-falls tinkled on the Safeco floor.

“Wretch,” I cried, “why Bavasi hath lent thee—by Baltimore he hath sent thee

Respite—respite and microbrew from thy memories of ‘Lemore;

Quaff, oh quaff this IPA and forget this lost ‘Lemore!”

Quoth the Oriole “Nevermore.”

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—

Whether Yankee sent, or whether Ray tossed thee here ashore,

Desolate yet all undaunted, on this Safeco Field enchanted—

On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—

Is there—is there balm in SoDo?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”

Quoth the Oriole “Nevermore.”

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!

By that Roof that retracts above us—by that Ring we both adore—

Tell this soul with sorrow nearing if, within the distant Series,

It shall clasp a sainted utility player whom the fans name ‘Lemore—

Clasp a rare and radiant utility player whom the fans name ‘Lemore.”

Quoth the Oriole “Nevermore.”

“Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—

“Get thee back into the airplane and to distant Baltimore!

Leave no series sweeps as a token of that lie thy orange soul hath spoken!

Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the Griffey bust above my door!

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from the Mariners Team Store!”

Quoth the Oriole “Nevermore.”

And the Oriole, never flitting, still is shitting, still is shitting

On the pallid bust of Griffey just above my Mariners Team Store;

And his eye black has all the seeming of a Machado that is beeming,

And the jumbotron above adds yet another number to the score;

And my fandom curse from out that Moose-shaped shadow floating on the floor

Shall be lifted—nevermore!