'Twas the day of game seven
And all through the nation
Not a fan wasn't watching,
We were ready for a celebration.

As we watched the first two games,
We lost each one badly,
Pedro took the mound,
We heard "who's your daddy?"

Game three was a blowout
Yankees 19-8.
They thought about a sweep
But Ortiz said, "hey wait."

At the beginning of game four,
Some thought they blew it,
Until Ortiz came to the plate,
And he said, "let's do it."

As he circled the
bases
We sat and said "wow!"
To the New York fans,
"Who's your papi now?"

Game five was upon us,
Fourteen innings it went,
We knew it would be close
And the bullpen was spent.

More rapid than eagles,
his pitchers they came,
He whistled and shouted
and called them by name.

"Now Timlin,
now Embree,
now Bronson and D-Lowe.
On Foulke, on Myers,
on Curt and Pedro.

To the top of the hill!
To the end of the game!
Now one away, two away,
three away all!"

And then in the clutch
I heard from the crowd
The cheering an clapping
as they got loud.

As Ortiz held his
bat
and he spun it around,
Down came Johnny Damon
from third with a bound.

Onto game six
with the Sox fans' applause,
Schill's sock was all bloody
with stitches and gauze.

The bundle of Sox hopes
he flung on his back,
He looked like the Old Curt,
ready to attack.

His splitter how it
dropped!
His curve how it tricked!
His change-up was nasty,
his fastball so quick!

Bellhorn's droll little bat
was quiet all week,
Until he stepped to the plate
and took Lieber deep.

With the slap at Bronson,
A-Rod showed he's a cheater,
Along with Sheffield,
Matsui, and Jeter.

Francona
spoke very little
about who would pitch,
He filled out his line-up card
without a hitch.

He knows his team
will give it their all,
And in the end
the Yankees will fall.

From the dugout,
our team will spring,
how sweet will be
the final swing.
We'll hear them exclaim as they come back to
town,
"Who's up next? You're going down!"

VERY NICE!