Dear Deadbirds, how do I hate thee?

Let me count the ways.
I hate thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach with every ounce of might
To the ends of Being and in every way.
I hate thee to the level of everyday's
Gametime deed, by sun and stadium light.
I hate thee truly, as the falling snow is white;
I hate thee strongly, more than the hated Yankees.
I hate thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I hate thee with a hate I seemed to lose
After my Reds were done,–I hate thee with the breath,
Frowns, tears, of all my life!–and, if Tigers choose,
I shall but hate thee better after you lose.

With apologies, of course, to Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

I feel like the Reds just lost the NLCS.