We would win every game: A poem for the opening day of baseball season.

The Red Sox? We'd crush them so hard that, God-willing,
They'd renounce their club, deny knowing Curt Schilling.

Each game would last only three hours or so,
And every ninth inning, we'd close it with Mo.

The nation, behind us, would form one great chorus,
At home games, Glenn Beck would sit next to George Soros.

The world would seek peace, ancient rivalries healed,
All warfare would cease when my team took the field.

And every poor family just struggling to eat,
They would watch all my games from their luxury suite!

For every home run, they'd see fireworks prancing.
(The wealthy Koch brothers would handle financing.)

Then, in from the bullpen, a grand float advancing:
Bristol Palin and Natalie Portman … both dancing!

If I ran the team – well – there would be some rubs:
I'd always feel guilty when beating the Cubs.

I'd want to play favorites, could not fire coaches,
Could not raze an old park, even if it had roaches.

I could not claim I'm broke, rattle cups in the street,
Or let tickets be sold for five thousand per seat.