Fourteen-Three Citi Field Meltdown

[Verse 1] Peep your fake Ace, such a total disaster, Fried’s getting chased, meet your New York master. Three innings deep, you’re already crumbling, Seven runs in, you’re mentally stumbling. Buenos en hype, MEJORES en el meltdown, You Citi Field Tourists are losing your crown. [Chorus] Fourteen to three, what a joke of a score, Lindor’s the boss, you’re down on the floor. Six RBIs, he outscored your whole team, Waking you from your elite little dream. [Instrumental break] [Verse 2] Fourteen runs given, you’ve lost the plot, That "A" on your cap’s the only thing hot. Worst beatdown since twenty-twenty-three, World-class collapse that we’re thirsty to see. Good at the start, BETTER at the failure, Lindor’s twin blasts were your season’s derailer. Atlanta’s rotation is purely a mess, Choking in Queens, you have to confess. [Chorus] Fourteen to three, what a joke of a score, Lindor’s the boss, you’re down on the floor. Six RBIs, he outscored your whole team, Waking you from your elite little dream. [Outro] Fourteen to three, go keep the receipt, Pack up your bags and accept the defeat.