Ode to Albert Pujols

This is my poem written to the greatest baseball player of all time. I like it, even if none of you do.

Albert, Albert, burning bright,
In the infield, in the night,
What sportswriter, near or far
Could guess thy fearful UZR?

And what feeble outfield mitt
Could catch the quickness of thy hit?
In what manner could he try
To stop your smooth walk-off Big Fly?

And what stat won’t see your skill,
Making you seem over the hill?
Slugging, average, OPS?
Your results are always ridiculous!

Why the sore elbow? Can surgery wait?
In the midst of a season, is it fate?
With hairline receding, why no glee,
With thy above-par goatee?

When next season comes your way
When the Cards prepare to play
What are the heights of your success?
Is it possible to even guess?

Albert, Albert, burning bright
In the infield, in the night,
What sportswriter, near or far
Could guess they fearful UZR?