It isn’t too far that the Dolla-drums lie.
Where the grim and the glum reach on up to the sky.
The bats all miss balls.
The umps make bad calls.
Where the dream of the day, of the year, goes to die.
It’s where we grew up, in the Dolla-drum-drum.
Where I watched the TV as I sucked on my thumb.
I heard a cheer, heard a shout.
Winning wasn’t in doubt.
How could I have seen it, the grief yet to come?
So far are those dreams from when we were still young.
Fly away, my oh my, on the tip of Dave’s tongue.
Randy and Griffey and Buhner and ‘Gar.
‘Roided up Boonie, whose flips went so far.
All no more, we are done, the bell has done rung.
That’s what it does when you sit in that bog.
It gives you all that you want, makes you drunk in a fog.
Raises you, lifts you up.
Makes you glad, fills your cup.
The ‘Drums took us all, now we’re stuck on this blog.
Only once we were in the muck up to our knee,
Dolla-drum stretched out, far as we could see.
Did the stench fill my nose.
And sink into my clothes.
It started to wither, the Dolla-drum tree.
They turned back into pumpkins, did Freddy and Boonie.
Then Boone became López, Guillen became Yuni.
Ben Davis, Greg Dobbs.
Turned our shouts into sobs.
And stuck in the muck we began to turn looney.
We watched Ichiro do just as much as he could.
Saw Figgins collapse, should have then understood.
One-by-one the ‘Drums took what we thought that we knew.
Year-by-year our bodies grew weaker, our brains became goo.
Now we say “Um, pretty sure Dylan Moore’s good.”
Though the ‘Drums always shift, one thing does not change.
Each weekday night, it will never seem strange.
When the Mariners play a team dressed in green.
We sit in the ‘Drums, stare in horror at the screen.
How in the world does Andrus still have range?
Worry not, some will say, though the clouds do close in.
For the ‘Drums still hold hope, for both us and our kin.
We’ll bring them to games.
Teach them all of the names.
For it’s only a matter of time that they’ll win.
I know that that’s not what the Dolla-drums teach.
No, the Dolla-drums suck out our dreams like a leach.
But that’s not why we’re here.
Hold my hand, do not fear.
You’re all that I have, please don’t leave, I beseech.
Not for long, I say, will we lose to the A’s.
Nay, Jarred is here, he’ll lead us out of the haze.
Yusei, and K-Lew, and a boatload of money.
J-Rod, and Gilbert, this all will seem funny.
It’s with the power of youth that we’ll emerge from the maze.
So please, settle in, we’ve got plenty of room.
Watch Mariners baseball, one-sixty-two to consume.
And when this version’s faded.
And our kids are all jaded.
I hear the Dolla-drums make a mighty fine tomb.