His pickoff move came second to none
That southpaw arm a flame-throwing one
Come playoff time, he was the man
Number one in the clutch, painting the corners like a crayon
He had CY Young material, a stellar career
His stare down scowl something to fear
The rings on his fingers the dynastic symbols
Of an incredible pitcher who warmed our souls
Farewell to dandy Andy Pettitte
Number forty-six, we won’t forget it
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