What a Game Lyrics - Ragtime Soundtrack
Ragtime Soundtrack Lyrics
What a Game Lyrics
Umpire:
Play ball!
Father:
You'll like baseball. It's a civilized pastime.
A Group:
AIN'T THIS THE KIND O' WEATHER
A Group:
FOR SMACKIN' LEATHER,
A Group:
FOR PLAYIN' BASEBALL!
All:
THE KIND O' WEATHER MAKES A MAN
HIT LIKE HELL!
(hock, spit)
Fan 1:
Let's go, you sons o' bitches!
Fan 2:
Let's see some pitches!
All:
LET'S PLAY SOME BASEBALL!
Fan 3:
The Kraut is strikin' out again!
Fan 4:
Schmidt, ya smell!
All:
(hock, spit)
A Group:
THE GIANTS HAVEN'T GOT A PRAYER.
Another Group:
AHH, YER UNDERWEAR!
First Group:
UP YER ALLEY!
Both Groups:
GO BACK TO WHERE YOUR MOTHER ONCE CAME!
All:
HIT THAT BALL!
Fan 1:
Run, you bastard!
All:
HIT THAT BALL!
Fan 2:
Kill the Kraut!
All:
WHAT A GAME!
(hock, spit)
Fan:
Hey, Schnabel, take your head outta your ass!
I guess that's tellin' him.
Little Boy:
Hey, Schnabel, take your head...!
Father:
AT HARVARD,
WE WERE GENTLEMEN.
MEN WERE GENTLEMEN.
Everyone Else:
SO'S YER SISTER!
Father:
WE CALLED EACH OTHER MISTER, AND...
A Group:
Doyle, ya suck!
Father:
DON'T LISTEN!
OUR GAMES WERE VERY QUIET,
WE'D NEVER RIOT, WE'D...
A Group:
EAT THAT BASEBALL!
Father:
THE WORST WE EVER SAID WOULD BE...
Immigrant:
Run, ya schmuck!
Father:
DON'T LISTEN!
THOUGH I'M A FORWARD THINKER,
A Group:
The Mick's a stinker!
Other Group:
HE DROPPED THAT FLYBALL!
Father:
THERE'S HARDLY ONE AMERICAN NAME!
Immigrant:
Yah, Herzog!
All:
HIT THAT BALL!
Fan 1:
Stupid Polack!
All:
HIT THAT BALL!
Fan 2:
Kill the Kike!
All:
WHAT A GAME!
(hock, spit)
IT'S
BRAVES AND GIANTS
TWO TO TWO.
THE
PITCHER'S NAME IS
HUB PURDUE.
JACK MURRAY'S NOW
UP AT BAT...
MY GOD, WOULD SOMEBODY LOOK AT THAT!
AIN'T THIS THE KIND OF WEATHER
TO GET TOGETHER AND
Fan 1:
Bash his teeth in!
All:
THE KIND O' WEATHER MAKES A MAN
HIT LIKE HELL!
A FINE, UPLIFTIN' ATMOSPHERE.
BRING YER CHILDREN HERE.
TEACH THEM BASEBALL.
THE GAME ALL TRUE AMERICANS
DO DAMN WELL.
IT'S LIKE THE CONSTITUTION,
THE INSTITUTION
OF DEAR OL' BASEBALL,
WHERE EVERY MAN IS TREATED THE SAME!
KILL THE KRAUT!
Fan 1:
Run, you Polack!
All:
STRIKE THAT KIKE!
Fan 2:
Kill the Mick!
All:
WHAT A...
WHAT A...
WHAT A...
Little Boy:
Up yer alley!
Father:
Ssh, Edgar!
All:
GAME!
(hock, spit)
Play ball!
Father:
You'll like baseball. It's a civilized pastime.
A Group:
AIN'T THIS THE KIND O' WEATHER
A Group:
FOR SMACKIN' LEATHER,
A Group:
FOR PLAYIN' BASEBALL!
All:
THE KIND O' WEATHER MAKES A MAN
HIT LIKE HELL!
(hock, spit)
Fan 1:
Let's go, you sons o' bitches!
Fan 2:
Let's see some pitches!
All:
LET'S PLAY SOME BASEBALL!
Fan 3:
The Kraut is strikin' out again!
Fan 4:
Schmidt, ya smell!
All:
(hock, spit)
A Group:
THE GIANTS HAVEN'T GOT A PRAYER.
Another Group:
AHH, YER UNDERWEAR!
First Group:
UP YER ALLEY!
Both Groups:
GO BACK TO WHERE YOUR MOTHER ONCE CAME!
All:
HIT THAT BALL!
Fan 1:
Run, you bastard!
All:
HIT THAT BALL!
Fan 2:
Kill the Kraut!
All:
WHAT A GAME!
(hock, spit)
Fan:
Hey, Schnabel, take your head outta your ass!
I guess that's tellin' him.
Little Boy:
Hey, Schnabel, take your head...!
Father:
AT HARVARD,
WE WERE GENTLEMEN.
MEN WERE GENTLEMEN.
Everyone Else:
SO'S YER SISTER!
Father:
WE CALLED EACH OTHER MISTER, AND...
A Group:
Doyle, ya suck!
Father:
DON'T LISTEN!
OUR GAMES WERE VERY QUIET,
WE'D NEVER RIOT, WE'D...
A Group:
EAT THAT BASEBALL!
Father:
THE WORST WE EVER SAID WOULD BE...
Immigrant:
Run, ya schmuck!
Father:
DON'T LISTEN!
THOUGH I'M A FORWARD THINKER,
A Group:
The Mick's a stinker!
Other Group:
HE DROPPED THAT FLYBALL!
Father:
THERE'S HARDLY ONE AMERICAN NAME!
Immigrant:
Yah, Herzog!
All:
HIT THAT BALL!
Fan 1:
Stupid Polack!
All:
HIT THAT BALL!
Fan 2:
Kill the Kike!
All:
WHAT A GAME!
(hock, spit)
IT'S
BRAVES AND GIANTS
TWO TO TWO.
THE
PITCHER'S NAME IS
HUB PURDUE.
JACK MURRAY'S NOW
UP AT BAT...
MY GOD, WOULD SOMEBODY LOOK AT THAT!
AIN'T THIS THE KIND OF WEATHER
TO GET TOGETHER AND
Fan 1:
Bash his teeth in!
All:
THE KIND O' WEATHER MAKES A MAN
HIT LIKE HELL!
A FINE, UPLIFTIN' ATMOSPHERE.
BRING YER CHILDREN HERE.
TEACH THEM BASEBALL.
THE GAME ALL TRUE AMERICANS
DO DAMN WELL.
IT'S LIKE THE CONSTITUTION,
THE INSTITUTION
OF DEAR OL' BASEBALL,
WHERE EVERY MAN IS TREATED THE SAME!
KILL THE KRAUT!
Fan 1:
Run, you Polack!
All:
STRIKE THAT KIKE!
Fan 2:
Kill the Mick!
All:
WHAT A...
WHAT A...
WHAT A...
Little Boy:
Up yer alley!
Father:
Ssh, Edgar!
All:
GAME!
(hock, spit)
Back to: Ragtime Lyrics