An interlude for the Poets: Don't Poop on Our Parade

With apologies to Styne, Merrill and Monkey

(I can't account for the occasional random line breaks.  And yes, I do happen to be a heterosexual)

Don’t tell us not to cheer—

Just mope and compute,
Life’s winning and the goal’s
A chance to crapshoot.
Don’t bring around some stat
To poop on our parade!

Don’t tell us “no sac bunts”
We think they count, too.
If we can steal a base,
We really ought to.
No dreary acronyms

To poop on our parade!

We’ll march our rooks out,              
Bet on the come.
And if we’re hooked-out,
Your turn at bat, Rats.
At least we didn’t flake it,
Drat, Rats, maybe Oh-9 is when we’ll make it …

But if we’re 20 wins,
Of rare perfection.
Or painful losing streaks
Meaned by regression
The Lasik or some blurry sunscreen in the eye,
We gotta play ‘em,
We’re gonna flay ‘em,
Hardly even pay ‘em, this year
Baseball is heaven,
Six months or seven --
We get to cheer the A’s, dear.

Get ready for us, League,
The A’s are comers,
Marching to the beat
Of left-field drummers.
Don’t bore us with some stat 
To poop on our parade!

We’re gonna win, and win Now!
Play off your charts--we know how,
Play-off for the whole jackpot,
Pitch, catch and hit where they’re not,
Eye outside sliders, and take--
Wait for the fastball, and rake-- 
Hey, Mister Selig, kiss our bum!

Repeat: We’ll march our rooks etc.

Repeat: Get ready for us etc.

Original lyrics  here.

Youtube  version here.