There's a place on Figueroa Street
Where you can always go
Smiling faces you might meet
Whoa-oa-oa, all hail The Sportsman Bar
Whoa-oa-oa, all hail The Sportsman Bar

The trophies on the mantel
Are covered with dust
And the pretzels are from 1982
The soda from the bar
Tastes just like rust
Nobody cares, all hail The Sportsman Bar
Whoa-oa-oa, all hail The Sportsman Bar

There's Mike Green
He's fallen to his knees
He's mumbling 'bout the
State Street rock and roll
They took away the booths
But unless they take the roof
We will see you again here tomorrow

Say a prayer for friends
Who passed away
Say a prayer for the lurkers
And the losers
And to all you bastards
That moved out of town
We'll see you at Thanksgiving
At The Sportsman Bar
Whoa-oa-oa, all hail The Sportsman Bar
Ned's our man
With his Pabst Blue Ribbon can
Uh-oh, he's looking for a fight
He'll punch you in the face
But it's your kind of place
So we'll see you again here tomorrow

Everybody's drunk, everybody's drunk
Whoa-oa-oa, all hail The Sportsman Bar