On Hatcher Field
On Hatcher Field, addicted hookers blow
Between the crack houses row on row
Which on John Street did lie,
Where ladies of the night their trade did ply,
Like certain mayors we know:
Bauer, Kalb, Malone—whichever hoe
Was used, we saw the deficits grow,
One, two, three million—deficits so high
They nearly touch the sky.
But somehow the money was found
To build a baseball field on this ground
And to pay, to the master of the art of swindling,
Two million for the Marting building
Tell me, bro, tell me this field ain’t so,
Tell me this ain’t the field of who you know;
Tell me this ain’t the field of domained property,
Tell me this ain’t the field where Hatcher’s mall would be;
Tell me this ain’t the field of outrageous schemes,
Tell me this ain’t the field of broken dreams;
Tell me this ain’t the field where abatements were mailed out,
Tell me this ain’t the field where Hatcher was bailed out;
Tell me this ain’t the field where Lewis and Hayes lie,
Tell me this ain’t the field where addicts die;
Tell me this ain’t the field where competition’s nixed,
Tell me this ain’t the field where the game’s fixed;
Tell me this ain’t the field where umps are cowed,
Tell me this ain’t the field where cheating’s allowed;
Tell me this ain’t the field where water rates relentlessly rise,
Tell me this ain’t the field where flooded Grandview cries;
Tell me this ain’t the field where money, not bases, get stolen,
Tell me this ain’t the field where bank accounts, not averages, get swollen;
Tell me this ain’t the field where politicians play games,
Tell me this ain’t the field where Mearan hits on dames.
Tell me this ain’t the field where taxpayers are put through the wringer,
Tell me this ain’t the field where Hatcher gives us the finger;
Tell me this ain’t the field where sewers overflow,
Tell me this ain’t the field where deficits grow and grow and grow:
Tell me this ain’t the field where it ain’t over till the fat lady sings,
Tell me this ain’t the field where the devil’s running things.
Robert Forrey
