A Visit from Saint Cliff

Away to Stark's profile we flew like a flash;
Those not near computers tore off in a dash.

We sat at screens; our faces aglow.
Could this really happen? We needed to know.

When what to our wondering eyes should appear,
But a familiar face that we all hold quite dear:

Those long arms and legs—we knew in a jiff
It really could happen! The return of our Cliff!

More rapid than eagles, the bloggers they came
And they whistled and hollered and shouted Lee's name.

From Kyle and Enrico, and even from Sweeney:
There was praising of Cliff, while calling Werth "weenie."

From Broad Street to Mayfair, P'yunk to Pennsport:
A certainty this team could never fall short.

As the spirit of Kalas to the park it did fly,
Tens of thousands of Phils fans let out a loud cry.

Hashtags were created, and followers grew
Tweets rang out: "Four aces? Get a load of this crew!"

In Fishtown, fireworks were shot off from a roof:
Hipsters taking time off from being aloof.

The Yankees' front office sat together and frowned
At the thirty mil Cliff left sitting around.

Their hopes for our man were now firmly kaput,
But hey, at least Jeter is going to stay put.

"We should have said spitting on Cliff's wife was whack,"
Said Steinbrenner's eldest, that sorry sad sack.

And meanwhile—in Philly—things got pretty merry:
We replaced all our green gear with red like a cherry.

We still love our Iggles, we'll all have you know,
But Cliff back in Philly? Let's let some red show.

After all, 'tis the season for bright red and green:
The Birds win, we get Cliff—that's two top-notch teams!

But this poem's about Cliff, that baseball Botticelli
Only his art is his pitching, and not Venus's belly.

Ol' Rubén must be pretty proud of himself:
If he's this year's Santa, is Charlie his elf?

When he traded Cliff, we called him sick in the head,
But Amaro got him back—now there's nothing to dread.

And now we're all eager for Cliff to start work.
Spring training: come soon! You hear us, you jerk?

The Phillies will now instill fear in their foes:
Our aces will all keep batters on their toes.

In April when Cliff takes the field we'll all whistle
As he hurls balls downfield—controlled speed like a missle.

But until the spring comes and we have opening night:
Happy Cliff-mas to all, and to all a good night!