Lyrics copyright 2002: Fred Wersan
Tune: Frozen Logger
As I sat down one evening
In a sports bar near Fenway
An autograph collector
To me these words did say
I see you are a slugger
And not just some minor league bum,
Cause nobody but a slugger
Has tar stains on his thumb
The Red Sox had a slugger,
Ted Williams was his name
You may have heard about him,
He’s in the Hall of Fame.
Ted Williams was a hitter
There’s none like him today
No matter what kind of pitch you threw,
He’d hit it a mile away.
And when his career was over
It was his final at bat
He hit the ball into the stands
And then he tipped his hat.
He retired down to Florida
Where he told his children three
When I die, please cremate me
And scatter me in the sea.
But when his game was over
With no more Dad to please,
His son sent him off to Alcor
His body for to freeze.
And when the people asked him why
Here’s what he had to say.
Folks can’t get enough of Dad,
We’ll sell his DNA.
They sold his legs for baseball bats
The results they were quite clear
The man who bought them hit
One hundred homers in one year.
They attached his arms to a writing machine
First the left and then the right.
Then set them to signing autographs
Throughout the day and night.
They put his head on a cyborg
And sent him to Hollywood.
They say his acting’s a little bit stiff,
But overall, quite good.
And so we lost our slugger
And to this bar I come
And here I wait for a slugger
With tar stains on his thumbs.