Hello, steroids, my old friend.
I’m come to inject you again.
Because on Hank’s record I am creeping.
Don’t care if it leaves the fans weeping.
And the vision that I’ve planted in their brains
gives them pains.
And so they hound
the Giant.

In restless days of ninety-eight
I was the man they loved to hate.
Mark McGwire, newly home-run champ.
Sammy Sosa left delightful stamp.
So my arm stabbed, like was theirs, with a big syringe.
It made me cringe.
And now they hound
the Giant.

In San Francisco’s night will soar
seventy home runs, maybe more.
Pitchers throwing without hoping.
Soon they realized I was doping.
People writing col…
umns ripping me to shreds.
Got no cred.
Newspapers hound
the Giant.

“Fools!” said I, “you do not know.
Did I fail steroid testing? No!
McCovey Cove still faces balls dropping
from the swings that I am not stopping.”
But my words
like strange liquid’s drops fell.

The questions
surround
the Giant.

And the people bowed and prayed
new record would not be displayed.
And Bud Selig flashed out his warning.
Seven-fifty-six will be forming.
And the scribes said
“The record is phony!
He put steroids into his bod!
Someday, A-Rod
will surpass
and hound
the Giant.”