Football Blood
On the day that you were born your mother gave you up
For a bag of oranges and pills in paper cups
You became a carpenter’s apprentice and a rake
With a taste for sawdust and a thirst you could not slake
But inside you moved in threes
Leaving phantom laddies on their knees
Football blood!
Up the hill those peasant girls would moan their native tongues
They were wiser than the master with the sawed-off thumb
He just coughed and criticized your lazy plane technique
How could he have known someone so young was so replete?
Tumbling down the lush hillside
Countless peasant girls left warm inside
With football blood!
Now and then, you lean too much or your eyes go astray
In those grinding moments, you might think about the lathe
And whether that was your true calling, even though you know
That, no matter what you do, the pitch is still below.
Sign your red-ink autograph
It’s the only hue of gold that lasts --
Football blood!
© 2006 John Brocato
For a bag of oranges and pills in paper cups
You became a carpenter’s apprentice and a rake
With a taste for sawdust and a thirst you could not slake
But inside you moved in threes
Leaving phantom laddies on their knees
Football blood!
Up the hill those peasant girls would moan their native tongues
They were wiser than the master with the sawed-off thumb
He just coughed and criticized your lazy plane technique
How could he have known someone so young was so replete?
Tumbling down the lush hillside
Countless peasant girls left warm inside
With football blood!
Now and then, you lean too much or your eyes go astray
In those grinding moments, you might think about the lathe
And whether that was your true calling, even though you know
That, no matter what you do, the pitch is still below.
Sign your red-ink autograph
It’s the only hue of gold that lasts --
Football blood!
© 2006 John Brocato