(The Beat: A heavy, lurching beat with a slightly off-kilter swing. Scratching samples that sound like corks popping and cans opening.) (Verse 1, The Mic Check) Yo, check the pitch report, it's grim, it's grey, it's grim. The Haricot Heathens are strolling in. Not a protein shake in sight, nah, son, we talkin' gin. From the dressing room reek, you know where to begin. The skipper, Captain Cannellini, man, he’s lookin' pale. Last night's bender was fueled by cheap fermented ale. He's rubbing his temple, he's dropping his bat, he's gonna fail, 'Cause the only thing he's catching is a bus to the bail. Look at the crowd, the Kidney Kingdom going wild, All forty-thousand beans, a field of legumes piled. They're all spilling their drinks, their chants are slurred and vile, They're here for the sixes, but stay for the trials. (Chorus) We're the Dysfunctional Bean Eleven, the side that never mends. Our only sponsor is the Sloppy Seconds brew and blends. We don't chase the leather, we're just chasing ends. Yeah, we're all off the wagon, but we make amends... ... by another round, hit the boundary rope and stumble in. The score is always high, but the fines are higher, man, where do we begin? Beans, beans, the musical fruit, the more you play, the more you stink! We're the legume dream team on the brink, on the brink. (Verse 2) They put the openers in, Pinto and the Black-Eyed Pea. Pinto's been awake three days on caffeine and cheap energy. He's jittery, he's twitching, he bowls a wide by three, The umpire's shaking his head, he's a Navy Bean, stone-cold referee. Now watch the Lima fast-bowler, he's got that hundred-mile-an-hour pace, But he's high on the good stuff, a blank look on his little bean face. He slips on the run-up, he lands with a crunch, leaves a trace, He's out for the rest of the season, a career in disgrace. The commentator's sighing, "It's all a Hill of Beans folks, a damn shame." This isn't sport, it's a spectacle, a pharmaceutical blame. (Chorus) We're the Dysfunctional Bean Eleven, the side that never mends. Our only sponsor is the Sloppy Seconds brew and blends. We don't chase the leather, we're just chasing ends. Yeah, we're all off the wagon, but we make amends... ... by another round, hit the boundary rope and stumble in. The score is always high, but the fines are higher, man, where do we begin? Beans, beans, the musical fruit, the more you play, the more you stink! We're the legume dream team on the brink, on the brink. (Bridge) The mascot's a giant can, the crowd is throwing tins. The sun is setting low, the hangover begins. The field is soaked in sweat and spilled Gin and Gins. Faba is fielding, but he's just lost his shin. That's another life lesson, wrapped up in a little bean story, You gotta play the game hard, even if you're not entirely... ... conscious. Yeah, the scoreboard's a blur, the lights are too bright, We'll pass out in the outfield and wake up in the morning light. The truth is, we're full of it, the musical fruit, but we sell out the dome, 'Cause deep down, every bean wants to watch the beans stumble home. (Outro) (Beat slows down and gets scratchier. A vinyl skip sound.) Captain Cannellini takes a swing... misses. Looks at the crowd... hisses. Drops his helmet... kisses... the turf. "It's a bean-dog-eat-bean world, innit?" Final scratch and fade out. "Game over, man. Where's the bar?" (Sound of a can opening.)
