by HoraceClarke66
With apologies to Sir Elton John.
Hey fans, park it on the sofa,
The Yanks are playin’ at home
But you might as well watch Oprah.
They’re servin’ up the fatted calf tonight
Don’t stick around
You’re gonna see balls flyin’
All around the pound.
Surrender all hope, ain’t you seen him yet?
Oh, but he’s so damned sad—
S-S-Sonny sends regrets.
Oh, he looks scared and he’s just awful
Oh, Sonny he’s truly bad.
He’s got no real fastball,
Stuff don’t break at all,
He made some 19-year-old look like Vla-a-a-ad
S-S-Sonny sends regrets.
Hey, Coops, give up on this phe-nom.
We know that you’re blinded
But it’s like tryna win Viet-nam.
Guess who’s McNamara in this scenario?
He wasn’t worth Fowler or Mate-o.
We shall survive but he needs to be gone.
Oh, Cashy, why is it you can’t see that yet?
Oh, but he’s so damned scared!
S-S-Sonny sends regrets.
Sonny, Sonny, Sonny, Sonny
Sonny, Sonny, Sonny, Sonny to the Mets . . .
Originally appeared on the Yankee blog, It Is High, It Is Far, It Is . . . caught.