"Billy Goat" Bill Sianis Had box seats to game four Of the '45 World Series Cubs versus Detroit One seat he would sit in The other was for his kid A goat by the name of Murphy Who the Cubs had always admitted That day an usher wouldn't let them To their box at Wrigley Field So directly to the owner PK Wrigley he appealed The answer came from Wrigley It was final and succinct He said there’d been a few complaints Some people didn’t like the stink Sianis, he was livid His face was turning blue He went out past the turnstiles Onto Waveland Avenue The vendors on the sidewalk Say he raised his arms up first And with his hands above his head They say he placed The Curse Just then a cloud passed over From the lake a chilly wind Anybody within earshot Woulda had goosebumps on their skin The skeptics say baloney (it’s hoo-ha) The poets make up verse 60 some years later They still blame it on the curse Those two box seats bore witness As the Tigers took the game Like they would games five & seven The Cubbies came up lame Ol' Billy Goat Sianis Got the last word, Holy Cow He telegrammed Mr. Wrigley Asked him “Who smells now?” It stared at Leo Durocher Stared right at his lip And Leo stood there staring back With his hands upon his hips On the top step of the dugout A cat the color of a hearse They blew a nine game lead in '69 People say it was The Curse They were playing for the pennant In 1984 Against the San Diego Padres They only had to win one more To advance to the World Series But they slipped into reverse And when Durham flubbed a grounder People blamed it on the curse Most recently, 2003 And just five outs away When a Cubs fan tried to catch a foul While the ball was still in play The lockers had been plasticised But the bubble had just burst The Marlins drank the champagne People blamed it on The Curse Just ask someone in Boston How long it took to break The Curse of the Bambino With its annual heartache And every time it happens It just feels that much worse They say there’s always next year And that might be The Curse

Punta Maldonado, off the Puerto Rican coast People sometimes meet there to offer up a toast To the greatest baseball player they ever called their own Who went off on a mission, and never made it home The earthquake was horrific, the aid was pouring in Roberto helped to organize a whole planeload to send The Nicaraguan junta had been looting all it could He’d fly with it to make sure it got to all the neighborhoods It wouldn’t pass inspection, the plane that he would hire The pilot that came with it, his license had expired A local huckster owned it, he wasn’t sure it flew He kept that to himself but the paint on it was new The plane was overloaded, the cargo not secured Standard operating procedures were totally ignored The engine didn’t sound right said the people on the ground When it took off for Managua & tried to circle back around People still remember where they were that New Year’s Eve When the word began to spread and hardly anyone believed Helicopters hovered all throughout the nights Just above the water sweeping with their lights They never found Roberto & the search went on for days Frantically at first and then they found his leather case No one could bear to call it off and so they carried on The divers never found him, Roberto, he was gone Punta Maldonado, off the Puerto Rican coast People sometimes stand there looking for his ghost The greatest baseball player they ever called their own Who went off on a mission, and never made it home

Good riddance to the 70’s when disco was the rage    12” vynyl singles, lip synching from the stage                                            The White Sox near the cellar, there were mostly empty seats                 There was the usual sarcasm from the writers on the beat The owner of the White Sox was a fellow named Bill Veeck                 Master of promotions, things you never would expect The guy who signed a midget and sent him up to bat    He signed off on an idea even crazier than that In between games of a twilight doubleheader A Rock & Roll DJ would blow up disco records If you brought an LP and dropped it in the crate Admission would only be 98 cents at the gate On the busses to the ballpark there weren’t a lot of kids There weren’t a lot of baseball caps, or a lot baseball mitts People had been drinking long before they paid their fares Traffic on the Dan Ryan backed up to O’Hare Comiskey Park, Chicago, didn’t have as many seats As was needed to accommodate the thousands in the streets They started climbing fences, they started climbing poles They had come to conquer in the name of Rock & Roll A slight miscalculation, they had underestimated By just how many people disco was so deeply hated More police were needed but nobody thought to call    A person on the sidewalk burned a John Travolta doll It really was a miracle no one was killed or maimed By disco record frisbees throughout the opening game Some shattered on the dugout, some knifed into the grass Some numbskulls roamed around looking to kick somebody’s ass The White Sox lost the opener whether anyone noticed it or not There was trouble brewing in the air but all you could smell was pot The crowd was getting restless for the real show to begin When the grounds crew came a’ hauling all those disco records in The jeep the DJ rode in on stopped in centerfield The driver left the motor running, kept his hands upon the wheel One foot on the gas pedal, one foot on the brake Lorelei the supermodel, she just smiled and waved The crowd was in a frenzy, they were yelling “Disco Sucks!” It was very nearly rapture when they blew the records up Sky high went the pieces, some landed in St. Paul   Most people yelled “Whoo-Hoo!” and drank more alcohol About then a bunch of knuckleheads jumped the right field wall The jeep got through it just in time before the free for all There were several thousand of them tearing up the grass Lighting things on fire, more than half an hour passed Harry Caray stood at home plate, his face as red as beets He pleaded through the PA system, “Go back to your seats!” The crowd began to mimic him with a “Go back to your seats, HEY!” The couple having sex at 2nd base did not obey The cops arrived on horseback, encircling the riot      Things calmed down in a hurry, things pretty soon got quiet The 2nd game was forfeited, the ball field was a wreck But disco was eradicated partly thanks to Mr. Veeck Good riddance to the 70’s when disco was the rage    12” vynyl singles, lip synching from the stage The White Sox near the cellar, there were mostly empty seats                 There was the usual sarcasm from the writers on the beat

He showed up for Spring Training With 40 pounds to lose He’d spent the winter partying But that was never news He wasn’t feeling all that good Throughout the training camp The Babe would run a fever And he often had the cramps After leaving Florida On the way back to New York The Yankees played the Brooklyn Robins On an exhibition tour They stopped in Chattanooga The Babe hit 2 home runs The next game was in Knoxville Where he hit another one The train left the next morning For Asheville, North Carolina Going across the mountains The tracks twisting and winding The Babe joined in a card game His cheeks and forehead burned He really didn’t look so good His teammates were concerned At the Asheville station When the train came to a stop The Babe stepped onto the platform Then suddenly he just dropped They took him to the hotel And put him into bed A newspaper in London proclaimed “The Mighty Babe is Dead!” **“The Mighty Babe is Dead!” “The Mighty Babe is Dead!” And before you even knew it That’s what all the papers said The team phoned a physician Who could really only guess It was his professional opinion That the Babe just needed rest He cautioned against travel Anytime too soon The Babe departed Asheville On the following afternoon Thousands filled Penn Station To try to catch a glimpse As they carried him by stretcher To the waiting ambulance "Helen, I feel rotten," The Babe said to his wife Before they took him to the hospital And he went under the knife **chorus The Yankees tried to manage All the rumors that would spread He ate too many hot dogs Supposedly they said Some thought it was exhaustion Some thought it was the flu Some thought it could be syphillus But no one really knew The Babe he would recover And hit lots more home runs More than any other By the time his playing days were done It’s said he loved his women And he often stayed out late And that he liked the taste of liquor And he did not watch his weight **chorus

It was no place for a lady on a Sunday afternoon In 1925 on the 21st of June It was a hundred two degrees and even hotter in the stands The day the all black Monrovians beat the ku klux klan No strangleholds, no razors, no horsewhips were allowed They put a couple extra policemen in the crowd Other violent implements of argument were banned The day the all black Monrovians beat the ku klux klan The klan was not too popular in Kansas at the time They’d already been exposed for their racketeering crimes In Wichita they didn’t seem to have a lot of fans The day the all black Monrovians beat the ku klux klan Only baseball would be on tap at Island Park that day Said the headline in the Beacon on the morning they would play They were trying to head off trouble before the game began The day the all black Monrovians beat the ku klux klan The umps were Irish Catholic, they favored neither side Out there on the field the rules were evenly applied It was a very good game of baseball said the newspaperman The day the all black Monrovians beat the ku klux klan It was a see-saw battle, a pitchers duel through four The Monrovians would break it open, ten to eight the score And then drive off in jalopies, not those nice sedans The day the all black Monrovians beat the ku klux klan

Where the Rockies meet the Plains Towns rose up to meet the trains Frontier justice handed down Rawlins was that kind of town They’d hang somebody now & then Make some shoes out of their skin Put them up there on display Reminding folks crime didn’t pay Wyoming built a state pen here For the worst of men to spend their years Tom Horn had been the last to hang Before the shortstop Joseph Seng Now all my teammates, one by one And each of us a mother’s son Will follow to the gallows pole Lord have mercy on my soul The day that Warden Allston came He hung a picture he had framed Of Connie Mack, his eyes ablaze Sitting with his World Champ A’s He ordered balls & bats & gloves To form a prison baseball club Teams from all across the west Would testify we were the best Practice in the prison yard Concrete diamond, pocked and scarred I only lived to crush that ball Somewhere far beyond the walls To places I won’t ever see Go on ball, you go for me Give those lawmen all the drop Keep on rolling, never stop On game days homemade banners hung The streets were full, the bells were rung The Carbon County Volunteer Band Played for people in the stands Dark blue flannels trimmed with white They fit just fine, baggy or tight Compared to wearing prison blues They kept us off the working crews 1911, 1912 Trophies on the warden’s shelf We went 39 & 6 Against a clock that always ticks The warden bet on us to win So did the judge, the two were friends Our executions would be stayed Depending on how well we played Yesterday I struck out twice Lay all night on a bed of ice The warden called me in this morn Asked me for my uniform Offered me a cigarette Told me that my date’s been set Tomorrow, should the sun still rise I would be the most surprised This here 5 x 7 cell At the old Crossbar Hotel I’ll leave things just the way they are The photographs, the baseball cards Whoever has to take them down There’s one of me out on the mound Send it to my Mama, please And say I died from some disease

Flashbulbs were going off As the batter approached the plate They had to replace the balls With ones they could authenticate Everyone knew it was gone One swing was all it took The batter stood and admired it The pitcher didn’t even look The guy who came up with the ball The one on the bottom of the pile Was missing a couple of teeth From his million dollar smile He was sporting two black eyes He was missing most of an ear His shirt was torn & tattered And his hair was soaked with beer Going, going, gone Oughtta make a nice souvenir But you can kiss that baby goodbye That ball is outta here Security led him away They pretty well saved his skin      There was a doctor in the house Put some stitches in his chin The ball would pass the test Under ultraviolet light There was the asterisk That was the ball alright The guy who came up with the ball Was famous for 3 or 4 days Everyone wanted a piece of him Everyone knew his face Letterman wanted him on So did Oprah and Conan O’Brien The White House receptionist phoned to say The President was on the line Going, going, gone Oughtta make a nice souvenir But you can kiss that baby goodbye That ball is outta here The guy who came up with the ball Heard from the IRS They wanted their half a million And not one penny less “Going once, going twice… Sold” said the auctioneer But who can say what it’s worth Except maybe the price of an ear The guy who acquired the ball Couldn’t tell you which was which A fast ball from a change up He was just filthy rich His boy took it to school His boy won show & tell But the son of the guy who came up with the ball Wished his dad didn’t have to sell Going, going, gone Should’ve made a nice souvenir But you can kiss that baby goodbye That ball is outta here

Around the phenom cameras flash Even when he just plays catch Way off down the 3rd base line The fans have things for him to sign The spotlight follows him around Same thing in every town Journalists and tv crews Articles and interviews The phenom in his senior year Not even old enough to drink a beer Hit 100 on the radar gun With a change up that was 91 Even then he packed the stands With as many scouts as there were fans Every pitch they charted and graphed He was the first pick of the draft 30 million gauranteed Whether or not the kid ever succeeds His teammates draw a grand a month Sometimes the phenom picks up the tab for lunch You can’t blame him, it’s not his fault The team was willing to open the vault No question that the kid can pitch Someday he might make all of ‘em rich The phenom drives a luxury car Along the road to being a star There’s a guy in every neighborhood bar Showing off his elbow scar He can’t miss say the analysts No one’s ever seen anything like this A dieing man made one last wish It was to live to see the phenom pitch **On this kid they bet the farm Him and his 24 carat arm Every hiccup is a cause for alarm Better not step on the foul line – Better rub that lucky charm Sometime around the end of May They moved him up to Double A It’s still the same, home or away Rain or shine, night or day Every game a sellout crowd The kid keeps getting batters out The talk show callers all say so The phenom’s ready for The Show

Hey Harry, I thought I might drop you a line It’s an afternoon game at the Friendly Confines I’ve got a radio up to my ear WGN coming in clear Somebody else now is calling the pitch Leading the crowd in the seventh inning stretch Sometimes he even reminds of you Just the odd moment or two Every year, Harry, on the day that you died When the local time is half past five Wherever they are from coast to coast To you Harry, Cubs fans will make a toast They’ll put those funny glasses on Thanks to you everybody knows the song “Alright, lemme hear ya, sing it with me… With a one…a two…a three…” Take me out to the ballgame, Harry Take me out to the crowd I’ll buy the peanuts and crackerjack Whaddaya say we don’t ever go back? We’ll just root root root for the Cubbies If they don’t win, it’s a shame It’s still one, two, three strikes you’re out At the old ball game Harry, since you’ve been gone we’ve let a few slip World Series tickets yanked from our grip We’ve thirsted for champagne the other teams sprayed Cancelled a couple of October parades That infamous foul ball was blown to shreds Of horsehide, cork, and a couple of threads They served the remains in a curse-ending sauce It still had the taste of that heartbreaking loss I hate to tell you and you’ll hate to hear That team from the South Side had one good year They won a World Series, but what could be worse The Red Sox have finally conquered their curse Up north, where it’s winter, there’s less of a sting When pitchers & catchers show up in the spring When poets are putting it all into verse And the Cubs are starting out tied for first So gimme a blue sky, gimme a breeze Gimme a brot or a boiger with cheese You might as well throw in a brew Harry, I’m hoisting this one for you The voice on the radio next to my ear Trying to be heard above all the cheers It might be…it could be…it is a home run! Holy cow, Harry, Cubs won! Cubs won! Take me out to the ballgame, Harry Take me out to the crowd I’ll buy the peanuts and crackerjack Whaddaya say we don’t ever go back? We’ll just root root root for the Cubbies If they don’t win, it’s a shame It’s still one, two, three strikes you’re out At the old ball game