Flying out of the stadium is a hardball to heaven's stair
My team beat yours 11 to 1, my dear
a minor trouncing, majorly fair
Strike one, strike two, strike three
I was tossed from your league
The fun had been you but the game was up- I had to leave
I gambled it bad and I chose the wrong sport for the team
It should've been wimpier
like volleyball
Your fastball was entirely desperate
never should have thrown it on the 2-0
Your catcher tried to signal curveball
but he wasn't quick enough and he was too on the down-low
The statistics were mine,
but the spirit was yours through the season
Now,
the only pleasure I get is
from the beat downs that my city brings to yours
The satisfaction I get is
from the beat downs that my city brings to yours
But, it's only 'cause I'm superstitious
that if my team beats yours I've also beaten your
resentments and all your judgments,
your memory and sweet things you promised to me
like
Baby, we're gonna marry
and Honey-Child, we'll have a baby
and Sweetie-Pie, we're solid as a rock
and Precious, I am eternally yours