The outlook seemed so hopeful for the Boston nine that night,
The score stood five to two, with but five outs left to fight.
Nixon, he had crushed the ball, and Millar and Ortiz too,
Martinez had his fastball, while Roger's arm was glue.

But all the heat wore Pedro down,
The Yanks did grind and grind,
And after Ronan sang his song
We watched it all unwind.

Jeter lashed a double, to the wonderment of none,
Then Williams ripped a single, and Jeter scored a run.
The skipper ambled to the mound to parlay with his ace.
"I'll get them out," said Pedro, "leave me in my place."

But Matsui hit a double, the Nation paused and sighed,
Then Jorge clubbed another one and now the score was tied.
Embree, then old Mikey, kept the tally even at five,
But in the House that Ruth Built, the Curse was still alive.

Grady turned to Wakefield, that master of the knuckle,
He hoped the ball would flutter, and that New York would buckle.

And now our Timmy holds the ball, and now he lets it go,
And now our dreams are shattered by the sight of Boonie's blow.

Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright.
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light.
And somewhere men are laughing, and little children shout,
but there is no joy in Boston -- for our Sox, again, are out.

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