Come Back, Sammy Sosa; All is Forgiven
Come back, Sammy Sosa;
All is forgiven.
The grass has grown past the cork.
It’s 545, Kelvin;
never too hot for Wrigley,
never too cold for homers,
never too old for friends.
Come back, Sammy Sosa;
All is forgiven.
The grass has grown past the cork.
It’s 545, Kelvin;
never too hot for Wrigley,
never too cold for homers,
never too old for friends.
I always pictured my Sammy Sosa as the lighter, scarier Sammy Sosa. Your Sammy Sosa is gentler, innocent. I detest him. Yet I cannot look away.