Now there are reds, in a simple crayon,

And there are reds, in a gushing bloody vein,

Reds, as in the movie,

Reds, inside your smoothie,

And red lipstick on your collar you can’t explain,

And there are reds, in a pomegranate,

But the finest, the finest reds that be,

Once were called The Big Red Machine,

The 70’s greatest baseball team,

That’s the Reds that Cincinnati came to see.

There are Reds who were traded, like a guy named Vada,

Paul O’Neill, Frank Robinson, too,

There were Reds named Cookie and Pokey and Smokey,

And Sparky, and old “Big Klu,”

And Reds who bet on a game,

With a foot in the Hall of Fame,

And sons of Reds, like Griffey number 2,

And there are red red robins, and red hearts throbbin’,

Red Sails in the Sunset, too.

There are Reds when you’re Russian and Reds when you’re blushin’,

When you’re doing things you shouldn’t ought to do,

But the Reds that did it all, made the town shake and shiver,

The ones that play ball by the Ohio River,

They’re the Reds That Cincinnati came to see.   

And there are reds, in your bloodshot eyeballs,

And ketchup, wine, and fire trucks and hair,

And reds on the tip of a clown’s nose,

And reds in a growing from the ground rose,

And sunburned reds when you’re skinny-dippin’ bare,

And there are Red Sox, who readily suck in Boston,

And rough and ready teams in NYC,

But the Reds Ohio has on its mind,

Opening day in old springtime,

They’re the Reds that Cincinnati,

Baseball sure can drive you batty,

They’re the Reds that Cincinnati came to see.