...people say a team is made out of bats
As swung by men in their sturdiest hats.
Leather to catch and wood to hit;
The latter here always goes to shit.
You go sixteen Ks, what do you get?
A lineup that’s coming with nary a threat.
St. Paul and Minneapolis endure fatigue;
You’ve all let down the American League.
I came up one evening with a game on the slate,
I picked up my ticket and I went through the gate.
I witnessed 16 whiffs, a never-seen pace,
So I dropped my head and my palm met face
Because sixteen Ks, what a regret;
Another game over as spectators fret.
Faint spirits here departing, we wail and skreegh;
The team’s let down the American League.
Now the next day’s evening brought identical pain,
Swinging and missing will drive us insane.
Such malaise in the stadium, every diehard is sighing,
And every soul attending wants to walk out crying
Because sixteen Ks leave the fans yet
Full of discouraging buckets of sweat.
Ain’t anybody dancing a reel or gigue;
We’ve all let down the American League.
If the Twins are playing, maybe close your eyes,
A lot of men whiffing to no one’s surprise.
One’s missing high, another man low;
If the batters aren’t hitting, then it’s time to go
And these sixteen Ks, sure to beget
A lot of games losing, a record in debt.
Quaint feelings of exhaustion and no intrigue,
We’re tumbling down the American League.