Forty years, forty flowers, forty birds that sing a-long.
In a good old country song, with their beaks up in the sun.
Forty kisses, forty smiles, forty songs that must be sung.
With a mother and her young and a father with his son.
 
Forty minutes, forty seconds, forty people on a pane,
for the ones who know that they need a ball to win the game.
Forty reasons, forty lessons, forty miles to shout the name,
of their good friend on the way to win the prize he couldn’t pay.
 
And we all play ball. 
Yes we all play ball.
Yes we all play ball.
It’s the game that makes a winner of us all.
 
Forty hands, forty feet, forty ears to know that we,
are proud to build tree out of fruits of honesty.
Forty chances, forty risks, forty times of guarantees,
that your already been pleased by a soft and gentle breeze.
 
And we all play ball. 
Yes we all play ball.
Yes we all play ball.
It’s the game that makes a winner of us all.
 
Forty smokes and forty drinks, forty false steps in a dance.
In the end of your offence there’s no need to make defence.
Forty wrinkles, forty hairs, forty sermons in your hands.
But you’re still one of the friends and a minder of good sense. 
 
And we all play ball. 
Yes we all play ball.
Yes we all play ball.
It’s the game that makes a winner of us all.