What a Game

You'll like baseball. It's a civilized pastime. 

(sung)

In a world gone mad

There is comfort to be had

In the game Father played at school

Men of class

Competing on the grass

Where sportsmanship

And fellowship

And courtesy are the rule

Play ball!

Ain't this the kind o' weather

For smackin' leather

For playin' baseball

The kind o' weather makes a man

Hit like hell!

*Hock, spit*

Let's go, you sons o' bitches!

Let's see some pitches!

Let's play some baseball!

The Kraut is strikin' out again!

Schmidt, ya smell!

*Hock, spit*

The Giants haven't got a prayer

Aah, yer underwear!

Up yer alley!

Go back to where yer mother once came!

Hit that ball!

Run, you bastard!

Hit that ball!

Kill the Kraut!

What a game!

*Hock, spit*

Hey, Schnabel! Take your head out of your ass!

I guess that's telling him, huh?

Hey, Schnabel! Take your head out of your—

At Harvard

We were gentlemen

Men were gentlemen

So's yer sister!

We called each other "Mister", and—

Doyle, ya suck!

Don't listen!

Our games were very quiet

We'd never riot, we'd—

Eat that baseball!

The worst we ever said would be—

Run, ya schmuck!

Don't listen!

Now here's this noisy rabble

This foreign babble

Who let this happen?

There's hardly one American name!

Yah, Herzog!

Hit that ball!

Stupid Polack!

Hit that ball!

Kill the Kike!

What a game!

*Hock, spit*

It's Braves and Giants, two to two

The pitcher's name is Hub Perdue

Jack Murray's now

Up at bat...

*Ball crack*

My God, would somebody look at that!

My son!

Ain't this the kind of weather

To get together and

Bash his teeth in!

The kind o' weather makes a man

Hit like hell!

A fine, upliftin' atmosphere

Bring yer children here

Teach them baseball

The game all true Americans

Do damn well!

It's like the Constitution

The institution

Of dear ol' baseball

Where every man is treated the same!

Kill that Mick!

Run, you Polack!

Strike the Kike!

Kill the Kraut!

What a—

What a—

What a—

Up yer alley!

Edgar!

Game!

*Hock, spit*

Yeah!