They used to tell me we were powerful
And I watched us pile up scores
Where there were runners on, we ran them off
Five, six, seven, or more
They used to tell me we could hit
Wins and pennants had came
Why should we scrap for four runs in five whole fucking games?
Once scoreboards ran out of numbers
Under Fenway nights, or sun
They say it’ll get better in summer, but,
Brother, can you spare a run?
Once we laid more pipe than plumbers
So many ways to get it done
Now, who will save poor Timmy Wakefield?
Brother, can you spare a run?
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