This town ain't big This town ain't small It's a little of both they say
Our ball club may be minor-league But at least it's triple A
We sit be-low the Marlboro man Above the right-field wall
We do the wave all by ourselves "Hey Ump, a blind man coulda made that call!"
We like our beer as flat as can be We like our dogs with mustard and re-lish
We've got a great pitcher, what's his name Well, we can't even spell it
We don't worry about the pennants much We just like to see the boys hit it deep
There's nothing like the view from the cheap seats
That local band is back in town They've got a kind of minor-league sound
They're not that bad They're not that good But all in all, it's under-stood
We want to dance, they want to play We wouldn't have it any other way
Now the majors call up old what's his name And one more building rises tall
And suddenly we're all grown up And this old town's not quite so small
But I'll always miss the middle-size towns In the middle of the middle West
With no name pitchers and local bands And mustard and relish and all the rest