The bleachers are deserted, the lights have all gone dark
The field is empty, no names on the scorecard.
Nobody yelling “hot dogs” tonight at the ballpark.

I sit out in the backyard with my Twins cap on my head,
Relaxing in my lawn chair but the radio is dead—
Nothing there but music, I guess I’ll go to bed.

I wake up in the morning, feeling low and mean—
Nothing in the paper, no box score to be seen.
My corn flakes taste like cardboard, my coffee’s kerosene.

Am I living in America, is this the month of June—
No baseball games, I feel like I am living on the moon
Nighttime doesn’t follow daytime, and there is no afternoon.

If the paper’s not delivered, I wouldn’t bat an eye—
The radio is busted, I wouldn’t wonder why—
But I can’t go to the ballgame, I just sit alone and cry.

My darling brings me hot dogs, my darling brings me beer,
She says, “Let’s play Monopoly.” I say, “Let’s not, my dear.
It’ll make me think of baseball and the way it disappeared.”

Somewhere there is laughter, and the little songbirds call.
Somewhere hearts are happy, somewhere people have a ball,
But there is no joy in Mudville, no, there is no joy at all.