There’s a space right below Jenny Ross’s left elbow
Which is the perfect place for a statement of personal hope
Poignant, yes, but strictly wishful thinking
For a slightly longer winter watching hockey at The Pope
And a demeaning stare as we spoke
You see, I’ve got doubt which echoes out like church bells
From a TV set to my inner ear into my brain
But, it’s like I’m speaking a buried language
Through six feet of earth and dirt out my mouth and back again
Terrible reception, congesting inspiration
Can I buy a buy a vowel and kick the consonants right out?
(Ba-da-du-da-da)
Color commentary, confirming the worst of fears
Driving back to Green Street looking forward to next year
Looking forward to next year