Let's drink to the hard-throwing pitcher.
Let's drink to the worst one on Earth.
Let's drink to he who makes us kvetchers.
Let's drink to old Kyle Farnsworth.

Say a prayer for the poor Yankee catcher.
Spare a thought for his backbreaking work.
Say a prayer for this wild-pitch snatcher
who must catch for this gopher-ball jerk.

And when I search a faceless crowd
a swirling mass of Pinstriped blue and white
they don't look real to me.
In fact, they look so strained.

Kicked is butt of the guy with the glower.
To save his life, this guy can't find the plate.
He can throw a hundred miles an hour
but result is some pitching we hate.

Spare a thought for upset Joe Girardi.
Manager who brought him in the game.
Patience long, disposition is hardy.
Soon he'll see, Farnsworth brings us such shame.

And when I look in the faceless crowd
a swirling mass of Pinstriped blue and white
They don't look real to me.
Or don't they look so strained.

Let's drink to the high-paying Yank fans
who think October's their right-of-birth.
Spare a thought for their pitcher's big tank, man.
Let's drink to old Kyle Farnsworth.

Let's hope the Yanks get new relievers
who will bring us some October mirth.
Kyle just can't make me a believer.
Makes me drink, 'cause he's not a darn's worth.