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