The Boys in the Bleachers - Chris Jolliphe

    I saw your picture on the front page, circling the bases
    Strolling over home plate, always coming up with aces
    You tip your hat toward right field, and the scoreboard shows a run
    And the boys in the bleachers get their fun

    Hit a long one Babe, we came to see you hit one out
    Send it over the billboards, give the boys in the bleachers something to shout
    A crack of the bat and the game is saved
    Swing for the fence, hit a home run Babe

    Sides of ribs and barrels of beer, silk underwear and fancy cars
    You used to be a poor boy, now you're smoking Cuban cigars
    Up all night raising hell, but each game you come to play
    They're calling you greater than the Georgia Peach
    He's an old man anyway

    The Times are selling headlines and the vendors Babe Ruth shirts
    Six hundred fifty homers, they still want their moneys worth
    Each game needs a hero and you still need the cheers
    So you switch to a lighter bat and raise your bet against the years

    But I hear the brass are talking, they're saying that you're through
    Gonna send you back to Boston, 'cause they got no place for you
    The Yankees roll without him, another legend pulls up lame
    Now you're an old man in a young man's game

    [Repeat Chorus]

    The money ain't the thing, it's the time on your hands
    When you're playing golf for the Florida sun-tan
    Can't take the world serious, 'cause it's always been for laughs
    Can't hit the fence in exhibition games so you just sign autographs

    The Babe steps out to home plate, his bat is now a cane
    Wearing baggy pin-stripes and shivering in the rain
    When he tipped his hat to right field, on the steps of the dug-out
    You shoulda heard them boys in the bleachers shout

    [Repeat Chorus]

    © 1986 by Chris Jolliphe


    Marco Giunco
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