Suns and Spurs: Ballad of the Alamo

Spoof of Marty Robbin's "Ballad of the Alamo",
bent to describe the Suns hated of the Spurs

In the southern part of Texas, in the town of San Antone,
There's an arena all in ruins that the weeds have overgrown.
You may look in vain for scoring and you'll never see a one,
But sometime between the setting and the rising of the Suns,
You can hear a ghostly bugle as the Suns go marching by;
You can hear them as they answer to ol' Cotton in the sky:
Amare Stoudemire, Stevie Nash and nary eight more;
Stephen Hunter, Shawn Marion, present and accounted for.

Back in 2003-04, Colangelo said to Sarver:
"Get some volunteers and go fusillade the Alamo."
Well, the men came from Canada and from old Los Angeles,
And they joined up with Amare just to fight for the right to be Kings.

Brazilian busts with suspect hands, centers with broken fingers,
Stood together heel and toe to destroy the Alamo.
"You may never please your loved ones," Amare told them that day.
"Those that want to can leave now, those who'll fight for the ball, let
'em stay."

On the court he drew a line with his Super Sharpie,
Out of a bench of eight or five, not a player crossed the line.
With his banners a-dancin' in the dawn's golden light,
Tim Duncan came prancin' on a horse that was black as the night.

He sent a ball boy to tell Amare to miss all his free throws.
Amare answered with a laugh and a rousin' rebel yell.
Timmy Duncan turned scarlet: "Play Degüello," he roared.
"I will show them 4 quarters, everyone will forget how to board."

One hundred and eighty five fans holdin' back five thousand.
Five days, six days, eight days, ten; Amare burned the fans again.
Then he sent for replacements for Barbosa the lame,
But the scrubs that were comin' never came, never came, never came.

Twice he charged, then blew recall. On the fatal third time,
Timmy Duncan breached the basket and he sent them back in a casket.
Now the bugles are silent and there's rust on each board,
And the small band of players lie asleep in the arms of The Lord.

In the southern part of Texas, near the town of San Antone,
Like a statue on his last legs rides Michael Finley all alone.
And he sees the cattle grazin' where a single year before,
Amare's Suns were blazin' and the stands used to roar.
And his eyes turn sort of misty, and his heart begins to grow,
And he takes his hat off slowly to the Suns of Alamo.
To the thirteen men of glory at the seige of the Alamo Dome.

Paul