The pow'rs-that-be who run our game
Have given ample reason
To sit around and contemplate
if there'll be a season
Rapacious interests from all sides
Play malefic games
They don't care if baseball's played
Or immolates in flames
But we know this game's not played
In Baltimore alone
There are at least five nearby farms
With baseball of their own.
Few know the treasures we've stashed there
Unless they're on stakeout.
The other teams aren't that aware
But one day they'll find out.
So, what if dreams of this year's Show
bespeak fools' paradise?
And greed crushes the Majors' year
In its terrible vice?
When April comes, we Oriole fans
will have a big fall-back
We'll still have thrills and chills galore
In shades of orange and black
We'll watch mere prospects turn to studs
Of this there is no doubt
And when their foes come back to play
They'll wish they had stayed out.
Last edited by mikezpen; 10/01/2022 10:00.