It is the eleventh day of the month of December,
Surely for Yashur al Faqur, a night he won’t remember.
After dozens of shots and many a beer,
He’ll probably soil himself, probably from his rear.
To many, it’s a day to celebrate, it’s his birthday,
But to Yashur, he’ll go out hard, the say old way.
Maybe he’ll drink more, maybe he’ll drink faster,
But if that happens, it’s sure to be a disaster.
He’ll go to Peabody’s, the Green Room, Geoffrey’s Pub,
But his own playoff wiffleball game he’s likely to snub.
For none can compare to the jukebox and liquor,
Or the cute little blonde who wants him to stick ‘er.
He likes the Yankees, his favorite number’s eight,
A whole ‘nother year he’ll have to wait.
But that won’t stop him from blacking right out,
For practice makes perfect, sweet JoJo did shout.
Barry’s got the beard, Matty the lip raccoon,
Yashur doesn’t care about those, he just wants some poon.
He’ll drop some game, he’ll back it up,
He’ll drink from his bottle, he’ll pound from his cup.
He’ll order some Jager, some Jack and some coke,
There’s some lucky lady he’s hoping to poke.
But none can compare, for it must be fate,
That it’s me he chose to be his sweet stateroom mate!
Chief Staff Writer, Otis Terry Sanderson
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