There’s a goofball in the seats
Right behind home plate.
Batter knockin’ at his cleats
Looks a tad overweight.
Then this dope starts waving at my TV set
Doesn’t care about the game, not a Phil or Met,
He just keeps on yelling, “Look at me I’m on”,
Gonna guzzle ten more beers till the break of dawn.

Keep on yakkin’ on your cell phone,
Stupid’s waving with his ham bone,
Jerk’s polluting all the ozone,
Busy dialing Wilma Flintstone.

I see a dillweed in his car
Swerving left and right
Must be a famous star
But he’s not so bright.
Then he cuts me off on the Interstate
Pisses me off as well as scare my date
With a phone in one hand and a smoke in the other
Road rage alive with this ignorant mother.

He keeps on yakkin’ on his cell phone,
Stupid’s driving in the wrong zone,
Suspend his license till he’s full-grown,
Zig-and-zagging like a cyclone.

We issue tickets now and then for the wreckless man
In New York, Pennsylvania and the Jersey land,
When can I watch a game and enjoy each pitch
Without this ignoramus waving to his bitch
There oughta be a law for the sake of sport
Remove this sorry “fan” bunghole brainless wart.

Keep on yakkin’ on your cell phone,
Mental midgets with no tail bone,
Eating hot dogs with a snow cone,
Double-tasking with a cell phone.