by Sid Yiddish
Let the Ricketts go instead, let the Ricketts go instead.
After all, who paid for all those players to play?
It wasn’t lower management
And it wasn’t the fans
It was the Ricketts. It was the Ricketts.
Crushing our hero, like one million protesting pickets, silencing our voices, like sleeping crickets
But in the end, the chiefs always order up the final commands
And so it shall be known that in the history books of this season’s end that the shadowy figures above Rickettsville will send
A big heave ho to our mighty Joe
Whoosh! And out the door he’s shoved
Into a witch’s coven he is gloved and burned and scattered in a fine powdery ash, like stale popcorn in a blinding snow
Can we just let it be like several crushed cans of Old Style beer?
And accept the fact of…
Wait ‘til next year.