sophomore year, you rushed for an average of eight and a third yards per carry.
all eyes were on you.
junior year, you blew your knee out at an out of town game.
nowhere to go to but down down down.
nothing but the ground left for you to fall to.
by july, you'd made a whole bunch of brand new friends,
people you used to look down on.
and you'd figured out a way to make real money --
givin' ends to your friends, and it felt stupendous.
chrome spokes on your japanese bike,
but selling acid was a bad idea.
and selling it to a cop was a worse one.
and the new law said that seventeen year olds could do federal time.
you were the first one, so i sing this song for you,
william stanaforth donahue,
your grandfather rode the boat over from ireland,
but you made a bad decision or two.
yeah
|
Switch to English 
