We’re betting that on our heads will be bocce’s crown..
our time to take it, and we will, duly.
And after we get it, ourselves we will fete
In the spring, when tree sprigs are not bloom-free.

Teams in the corps will be sore when we show: At our core
we are champions and we will best ’em.
And after we’re through, they will do naught but rue.
They will wail; we’ll not fail to impress ’em.

After the rain’s tides have all been swept aside,
and the courts have dried and we’re not freezing,
We’ll start with a throw of yellow palino,
Then, out team after team we’ll be squeezing.

Our rolls will be firm, with no balls past the berm
of the back wall, ’cause that ain’t appealing.
We’ll knock out opponents’ balls with a bang,
and the stunned other teams will be reeling.

We’ll win with desire as we battle those clowns;
we’ll chuckle at the schmucks who’re failing.
Losses will ensue, and they’re gonna be blue
when another victory we’re nailing.

We’ll seal their fate, and we will not hesitate
to indulge in much great-vintage splashing.
They’ll trumpet our fame after every won game.
All records in the books we’ll be smashing.

When suppertime comes, we will have a food fest,
with each of us having brought good eating.
Before 9:00 PM, the three frames we’ll end;
we will have delivered a good beating.

Then next week, my friends, we will do it all again;
to smite all other teams we are able.
We’ll fight every night until we have earned the right
to our quest for the spread on the table.

We ain’t gonna blow a single game, and so
that will cause all the losers to glower.
We’ll go on to play in more victory days.
Our ball power will make them all sour.

We’ll rip ’em all up and we’ll take home the prize
That lies under food, wine, and water.
The past years of pain will have gone down the drain.
For spilled vintage, it will be a blotter.

We are the Roll Models, and we bring
to every game our unbridled passion.
Champion team, we’re fulfilling our dream:
playing in victorious fashion.

We don’t want to crow—we really do, though,
about our fulsome bocce splendor.
When we’re on a roll, we take a major toll
as we’re wrecking the feckless dead-enders.

Hurry to bring on the next season of play—
to first place we’ll be moving the needle.
When comes the time, for casinos we’ll be primed.
On victims’ asses, we’ll go Medieval.

We’re certain that on our heads will be bocce’s crown;
we will tear through the league in a doom spree.
We are the team to dread; our victims will see red.
We’ll take the cloth while their chops get spumy.