the first wednesday of november

The first Wednesday of November
The streets are lined with confetti and hope
A closer race nobody can remember
A valiant effort I’ve been told

But it might as well be
50,000 votes
Separating me
From the new mayor of Monroe

The first Wednesday of November
And I’m nothing but a citizen again
I was shining bright as a dark horse
I nearly galloped my way in

But it might as well have been
50 years ago
when I almost took the stage
as the new mayor of Monroe

The good folks bring consolation
Wrapped in sugar and cellophane and notes
But I’d trade every fruit basket
For 17 more votes

Looking back at what could have been
while looking forward to another winter in Wisconsin

I might as well be
A drunkard or a ghost
For I’ll never take the stage
As the new mayor of Monroe

the last of the ninth

In the last of the ninth, he stumbles to the hill
Holding down the nerves; he’s choking back the thrill
He’s never been so admired
He’s never been so alone

He’s throwing out the last pitch on a summer to forget
He’s bringing back a season that hasn’t ended yet
He’s three outs from perfection
And one mistake from the expected

His accusers became his followers
After the seventh inning stretch
The world is bei ng introduced
To a man its never met
His friends have all abandoned him (he’s standing on the edge)
in the last of the ninth

He calmly takes his place where the meadow meets the sand
The leather feels like ice; its melting in his hand
And sixty feet
Feels more like a mile

He does his best to pretend that this frame
is just the third or the eighth again
But the multitude cheering his name
Makes it impossible to forget
That he stands on the edge
All alone on the edge
In the last of the ninth

It’s a chore to turn his eyes from the zeros
And more to keep his mind from the heroes of his youth
But there’s three outs to go
In the last of the ninth

the last world war

I’ll do my best to stay awake tonight
But these are mediocre times
The best has come and faded
The rest could never save it
We’re weary of the imminent
But tired of the waiting

And its hard to be alone
With the ghost of the radio
Asking don’t you remember how it was

I’d send for a youthful song
You’d raise your cup and sing along
We’d laugh until the morning had come

Living what we believed we had never seen before
We found ourselves between the surface and the floor (ocean/shore)
Rejecting what we’d seen while holding out for more
On the threshold of the last world war

What a funny shade of quiet we’ve become
So little to say when the songs are sung
The spirit feels like fading
The shadows plan on staying
We’re fighting for a second change
But tired of the waiting

And its hard to be alone
With the ghost of the radio
Asking how we ever ended up like this

We’ve only to turn it on
Shake the dust, hum some barsIn no time we’d be dancing aga