PAUL RE-VAC RIDES AGAIN

For New York fans, ’18 couldn’t be worse — so lament, Boston haters, with this bit of verse

HOW MUCH has the BostonNew York thing gotten to me?

Well, you’re about to find out. It’s still a few weeks too early to break out the annual Open Mike Christmas Carols (despite the fact there are at least 37 stations and satellite radio now dedicated to them; I’m pretty sure The Carpenters have one all to themselves).

So I needed to borrow from — and, soon, apologize too — a certain Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, who long ago memorialized another annoyingly high-achieving Bostonian in “Paul Revere’s Ride.” Call this one “An angry New Yorker’s Rant,” or whatever the heck you want to. I’m going on vacation in a few hours to decompress and work out my anger issues. My best to all of you:

Listen, New Yorkers, and you shall hear Another far-flung and far-reaching cheer In the year Aught-Eighteen, from winter to fall In every way, with every ball New England had every sports roster premiere.

They said to we foes, “The Patriots rule “In sun or in chill, outside or in domes “The coach and the owner will take you to school “The QB has skills and elite chromosomes” One, on the ground, and two through the air The rest of the AFC East can’t compare. Your Jets and your Giants play much different sports “Don’t argue,” they warned, “for there are no retorts. “Now write that, Costello, and write that, Paul Schwartz.”

Then came the buckets, the white and the green And all we can counter are Clyde and Mike Breen A banner seems likely high above their parquet While our Garden continues to rot and decay With Kyrie and Horford, with Hayward and Tatum They make you scream curses and oaths quite verbatim And just when you think you can’t possibly hate ’em More than you already do, and you do … Comes a fresh wave of envy, and more bile to spew.

Meanwhile the Sox, the hose made of crimson The crew that was formerly nail to our hammer Now plunders and pillages and makes us all yammer And makes us all long for 1918 The Yankees, meanwhile, channel Homer

(D’oh!) Simpson And stutter and mutter and falter and stammer While the Sox only pose, dance and preen.

So through the year rode the villains from Boston And so through the year came the cry of New York; Into each of our teams they stick a gold fork With some trash talk to serve as the frostin’ The Bruins will surely have something to say Before Aught-Eighteen mercifully fades away Then comes ’19, and after that ’20 And how many more years filled good and plenty In our hour of darkness and peril and need We must summon our long-lost bravado; And summon to town on a proud, strong white steed Durant and Harbaugh and Machado.