As Marp's "extreme fatigue" condition seems to have improved (at least for now), thought I'd attempt to lighten things up as I sigh in relief.
His trouble sleeping reminded me of the book Go the F*ck to Sleep, which said things parents want to say (and have said) when begging a young child to go to sleep. (Reference).
So I wrote a parody of it. I hope the Cards designate someone to read it to Marp after games. Koz would be a great choice; guest reader should be Reds manager Bryan Price.
Marp, We Love You. Go the F*ck to Sleep.
The Cards nestle close, they are grittin'
The Phils have laid down and may weep.
You are cozy and warm in your bed, dear Marp.
Please go the f*ck to sleep.
The lights are dark in the park, Matt.
Reds huddle down in the deep.
We'll read you one very last score if you swear
You'll go the f*ck to sleep.
The Birdos who soar through the league are at rest
And the Brewers who crawl, run and creep.
We know you're not in bed. That's bullsh!t. Stop lying.
Put the bat down, oh grinder, and sleep.
The Voice whispers soft through the corn, dude.
The field Koz, they make not a peep.
You've done thirty-eight ghost swings already.
Jesus Alou, what the f*ck? Go to sleep.
All the kids that cheer you are in dreamland.
Gerald Laird has made his last leap.
Hell no, you can't go to the cages.
You know where you can go? The f*ck to sleep.
The balls fly forth from the barrels.
Through the air they soar and go deep.
The hot, Cards-red rage fills our hearts, man.
For real: no more swinging and sleep.
The Cubs and the Marlins are snoring (snore)
One eye on Chicago we'll keep.
How come you can Marp all this other great sh!t
But you can't lie the f*ck down and sleep?
The seeds slumber beneath the bench now,
And the cups that the players pile deep.
No more questions, this interview's over.
We've got two words for you, Marp: f*ckin' sleep.
The Tigers recline in the American Central.
The Oriole has silenced her cheep.
F*ck your stuffed Fredbird, we're not getting you sh!t.
Unblack your eyes, cut the crap: sleep.
Rockies doze low in the meadows
And high on the mountains so steep.
Your fans are all failures, we are shitty-ass helpers.
Stop f*cking with us please, and sleep.
The Giant ballplayers of San Francisco are snoozing
As we lie here and openly weep.
Sure, fine, whatever, we'll bring you your glove.
Who the f*ck cares? You're not gonna sleep.
Your game is all we can remember.
Your demeanor is scrappy, a treat.
You win! You escape, you run for a ball
As we nod the f*ck off and sleep.
Bleary and dazed we awaken
To find your eyes shut, so we keep
Our sphincters shut tight, as we comment away
And pray that you're f*cking asleep.
We're finally watching a ballgame.
Hot dogs and sandwiches, Veeb!"
Oh shit, goddamn it, you've got to be kidding.
Go the f*ck back to sleep!