A Prayer for the Lost Generation

Blessed are the believers who have never seen, but still have the faith.I am lucky I have seen two world championships even been to a World Series game in 1971. But there is a whole generation of faithful that have been sustained by blind faith, can't even recall a winning season . Still they held dreams of redemption 

, rooted and cheered in the face of hopelessness through 5 year plans, apathetic players and gimmicks meant to pacify the masses. But the young believers would not be swayed or fall victim to disillusionment.Their love for the team and  the city that housed it knew no  boundaries and they trudged on towards the promised land.

Well  here we are ,on the cusp of greatness. Take pride ye believers you have played no small part in this journey. Faith will be rewarded .Your hearts will swell  with pride knowing you have faced the darkness , stared into the abyss and rode out of Muddville with heads held high seeking the joy that has been promised .The faithful will be rewarded , you feel it in your bones.

Hoist the colors and LETS GO BUCS!

Grave Digger

He was a grave digger
He played Hockey
He was from Massachusetts
He was my favorite 3rd baseman
He talked funny to my ears
He worked with the Great One
He was a showboater
He influenced my approach
He went to Philadelphia
I have all his cards
Except for the Philadelphia ones

Summer is Gone

Summer is Gone
She's at the dance 
She looks at you then looks away
Then looks at you again
The straw from her drink
Moves vertically 
with no apparent rhythm 
She's all flowers and sunshine 
With the promise of a lifetime 
But as the days turn into weeks
She disappears 
Into vibrant colors of destruction 
All of a sudden she's gone 
Gone with the guy who stood by the exit wearing the shiny leather coat 
You know she'll be back 
But in a different form
And  its a long time to wait
So you go out
Lookin for a coat of your own

Woody is 100

  

Woody is old Woody is young

Woody is both New Years scenarios 

the old bearded man with a cane

leading the way for next years baby

If we are all of Chuck’s children

Then Woody is our Grandfather

Urging us to save

     These pastures of plenty

     must always be free

Not for self aggrandizing monetary purposes

But for what he ultimately cared for the most

This Land and its inhabitants

His words ring soundly and true

From long ago and far away

To present day predicaments 

           The gamblin man is rich

     And the workin man is poor

With a keen eye and an open heart

To the less fortunate and downtrodden

Those who have come from distant lands

To do the work of a nation

     All they will call you

     Will be Deportees

The muscle and might of labor

That fuel the country’s everyday activities 

The rights of the workers

For a fair a decent wage

          You can’t scare me

     I’m sticking with the Union

Railing against condensed power at the top

Dishonesty fueled by greed

           Some will rob you with a six gun

     And some with a fountain pen

Unafraid to borrow a tune and an idea

Stretch it and make your own

Be a conduit to spread the word

Of the unholy and righteous 

           Wherever men are fighting

     for their rights

     Thats where i’m gonna be ma

Woody is old and Woody is brand new

A voice you hear in the dusty wind

A voice you hear in the pages of history

A voice that will never be silenced

For it is inside of us

           The fog was lifting

     A voice came chanting

Glorious Transmissions of Freedom

We Hold these Truths to be self evident

That nobody wants to hear the opener

And the elevator is only for the National Acts......

The Year that I turned 13
I had this lick stuck in my head
I hid that transistor radio
Underneath a pillow of evaporating innocence
Saved up all my money cutting grass
And bought a sunburst Telecaster
Practiced Practiced Practiced
And never got any faster
Still i kept pushin pushin
Hung dead rockstars on my corked wall
And drowned my insecurities
In nicotine and alcohol
I bought sheet music by the pound
But it never held the answers
I couldn't find the formula
To get my band to play for
The Solid Gold Dancers
I was stung burned and branded
By sounds that were alien
To ears that were not open to receive
The glorious transmissions of Freedom
That three chords
And a Guttural Howl could produce
I was gone baby
And there was no going back