With apologies to Yeats.
Turning and turning in the widening gyre,
The Orioles cannot heed the manager;
Things fall apart, the rotation cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The AL East tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned.
The best lack all health, while the worst
Are full of passionate suckitude.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image from the Norfolk Tides
Troubles my sight: a waste of a right hand;
(What pitches with no movement,
A cutter blank and pitiless as the sun,)
Is moving its slow fastball, while all about it
Wind shadows of the salivating opposing hitters.
The darkness drops again but now I know
That fourteen years of losing teams
Vexed us to nightmare by a lack of talent,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Baltimore to pitch?