There's something inside me I can't quite explain
It's a fusion of longing, shock and disdain
It's hard to put down all the things that I feel
It's like having a road with no automobile

It's a void that exists when I'm feeling alone
The void of the runner about to tag home
It's the thrill of a catch to retire the side
It's the spirit of fun which has all but died

It's the rundowns and pop flies and doubles and hits
It's the teams in the race and the teams in the pits
It's the smell of the grass on a hot summer day
It's the chance that a foul just might come your way

It's getting your first cleats, bat, ball, and glove
It's the grounder below or the fly ball above
It's the two-out and two-on hit, scoring a run
It's the thought that you just might get paid to have fun

It's the once primal wish to be good at the game
It's the natural desire for fortune and fame
The national pastime the past hundred years
It's where you can stand out amongst all your peers

It's the game that each boy is taught when he's little
It's the shot down the line, and the drive up the middle
It's the awe-striking sound of a booming "Play Ball!"
And with out it I think I'd be nothing at all

But they've taken away the game I hold dear
And I'm starting to doubt if there'll be a next year
So I pray that we all can forgive and forget
But I'm not to sure if I'm in on that bet

In a league as fragile as papier-mache
I still can't see why the fans have to pay
For the greedy to glut, gorge, gripe, groan, and grunt
When all that we want is a sacrifice bunt