Another day, another game.
Another blowout, another shame.
Seems every season
another reason
for beatin' Cubbies.

The ivy walls are made of brick.
The way the Cubs play, it makes you sick.
Alas, poor Ernie, teams made the journey.
They're beatin' Cubbies.

Hitters, nervous and jiggly
they see the wind blow out
but they don't have to pitch at Wrigley
so they relax and clout.

So get the plop, and get the fizz.
"It may be, it could be, it is!"
And so said Harry, when balls did carry.
They're beatin' Cubbies.

Another year, or maybe less
what's this I hear? Or can't you guess?
Your ace is huffing, rotator cuffing.
They're beatin' Cubbies.

They're gettin' beat each day and night.
The bullpen phone, don't bring delight.
Goodbye, Mark Prior, and you say, "Why are
they beatin' Cubbies?"

These players make some money.
Five million dollars per.
Some fan who thinks he's funny
thinks they'll reach October.

Hey, Mike Wilbon.
Suppose they fail?
"Don't act surprised.
That ship has sailed."
Your team's a keeper.
Others are cheaper.
They're beatin' Cubbies.