Southwest Dekalb? No Problem!

An ode on the SWD victory over Lakeside
September 29, 1978 Panthersville Stadium

The word was out that fateful day,
The stands they would be packed.
Eight thousand fans or more would see
two vaunted teams they backed.

A stupid boast the Vikings made,
Newspapers heard the quote:
“No problem is the Panther squad”!
The scribes they heard, and wrote.

“Northside Tigers beat the Gold,
With ease they passed and rushed.
So when the Purple takes the field,
The Panthers will be crushed!”

Ranked first in statewide football polls
The Panthers were Week One.
But a loss and tie their record marred
Their perfect season done.

Meanwhile Lakeside found a gem
In White County way up north;
Melvin Dorsey had the skill
To push the Vikings forth.

Full of strength and speed and skill,
This halfback had it all:
He dipped and cruised and crashed the line,
And really moved the ball.

The Panthers were just hanging on
To keep Lakeside off the board.
They couldn’t seem to put a stop
To the Sturdy Purple Horde.

Halftime found the Panthers down;
“13-7” was the score.
Their work and schemes seemed all for naught;
The Vikings would score more.

But the Panthers found a key,
A thing they seemed to lack:
Captain Lindsey’s stirring words:
“Get crazy: Take this game back!”

Just like the country redneck lad
In the song they often heard;
Their backs were up against the wall;
Giving up would be absurd!

Intent the Vikings to upset,
The Panthers took the field
Their cleats they churned; their eyes they burned:
The Vikings had to yield!

Clark put his hat right on their end,
And bowled him on his rear.
And Smith sliced through the gaping hole
To the end zone without fear.

The roar from Panther fans awoke
South County’s silent vale;
The sound did echo out for miles
The Vikings sat there pale.

The Viking horde would not retreat;
To stop them required skill.
They closed and scraped and hit and held
And every gap did fill.

Then much to everyone’s surprise
From deep in his own zone,
Bob Berry faked a criss-crop trap
And dropped back all alone

He fired a missile high and long
Fifty-seven yards it soared
Selesky down the left side flew
And caught the ball and scored!

The Viking cornerback was brave
The Purple lad gave all
But all the effort in the world
Wouldn’t help that boy catch Paul!

The sideline players did erupt;
The stands became unglued;
The Panther pride came surging back
All hopes were now renewed.

One final scare in their own zone
Occurred on fourth and one.
Lakeside tried to tie it up
But lost 13-21!

I’m sure by now you surely know
The moral of this long, long tale:
Don’t underestimate the Panther pride.
You do and you will fail!

By Coach Dan Spier
SWD assistant football coach 1968-1979
Revised 2018

The Wrestlers

The wrestlers are a sweaty bunch;
Their starving urges they negate
By skipping meals, quite often lunch,
And breakfast, too, to make their weight.

They have no use for basketball,
Or soccer, tennis, holidays,
TV, girls, or volleyball,
Happiness or friendly ways.

Aerobic shape they think the best,
They jog along a six-mile route,
In rubber suits, from east to west
From avenue to round-a-bout.

They often do not go to class,
And courses seem to them a joke,
Yet educated fools en masse
Cheer on these starving, insane folk.

In Praise of "X"

In the Alphabetic Hall of Fame,
Some letters are the stars:
They stand for grades and acronyms,
With curls and dots and bars.

But I would like to celebrate
A letter oft ignored,
And demonstrate its merit
To the disrespectful hoard.

The letter I would nominate
For signatory fame,
Comes near the end of ABC’s,
And “X” would be its name.

You’ve heard about the struggles,
And battles of the sexes,
But I am here to sing the praise
Of humble little X’s.

You know the ones that gave you grief
In Algebra at school.
“Unknowns” they called them way back then;
To solve them was the rule.

One X could mean you got it wrong,
Two X’s, my oh my!
Three X’s, though, was oft forbade,
And I think that you know why!

And then in college we drank beer
From Mexico, they say.
And then one X was not enough,
Dos Equis ruled the day.

Divorces then began to rise,
As marriage went awry.
Then “exes” had a different slant,
For many a gal and guy!

The X of Xmas was not bad,
To some folk though it seemed.
For Greek X, Chi, referred to Christ,
Whose birth the world redeemed.

And when a string of X’s
Are paired up with some O’s,
It stands for hugs and kisses,
To thrill you to your toes!

But many days have added fame,
Our little guy to please;
St. Pius “X” and Malcolm “X”
X Games and XKE’s.

Madam X was quite a bomb,
And X Games curled your hair.
In history class we learned about
The XYZ affair.

Now don’t dare get “X” cited,
As England ponders BreXit.
But I “X”pect you’ve had enough:
It’s time for me to “X”it!

So give a cheer for X’s,
Their meanings make life clear.
They may not be the A team—
But their worth is just as dear.

Coach Mock

Ode to Coach Mock on Reaching His Eighty-Fifth Birthday

You had to know the painful thump
That cracked your crewcut head,
Was Coach Mock's college senior ring:
I swear it felt like lead!
He'd sneak up on you from behind,
When you were goofing 'round,
And smack you with that lethal gem--
The whole room heard the sound.
It was not done from hate or spite:
Coach Mock was not that kind.
He merely wanted us to be
The best kids you could find.
He would not let us tardy be,
Or turn in sloppy work.
In homeroom or in drawing class
You could not be a jerk.
It was that way in coaching too--
No matter what the sport.
He taught us fundamentals sound
On diamond, field, or court.
We learned to bunt and slide and steal
And how to play defense.
He gave us detailed scouting tips
His theories made great sense.
The honeysuckle bloomed each May;
Its sweet smell blended in
With cracking bats and crisp line drives,
At baseball time again.
The licorice tang of Beech-nut chew,
The pungent cigar smoke,
The lazy batting practice curve,
The burn of ice-cold Coke.
Bubba Louie rolling in the dirt;
Miss Dorothy looking down;
The Brown Bus full of bats and gear
To play somewhere 'round the town.
Coach Mock let us have our fun,
We Eagles liked to sin!
But more important he taught pride
And the fiercest will to win.
We know he scouted for the Reds,
And taught at other schools.
But Murphy's own he'll always be
In Eagledom HE RULES!
And now we scarcely can believe
This day it did arrive,
That Coach is celebrating many years:
He's turning eighty-five.
You helped to make us what we are
No matter what our call.
So, Coach, sincerely, we wish you
Happy Birthday from us all.
Murphy High School
Class of 1962

Ode to Charlie Breithaupt

Charlie Breithaupt, Man of Steel, Has been strong for many seasons, He faces all adventures new And always has good reasons.
Charlie loves the outdoors dearly The deer and trout romancing. The vision of a sunlit day Always sets him dancing.
Charlie hates the commonplace He eyes a suit and tie with loathing. He prefers the gentle grace Of outdoor clothing.
Charlie now is seventy-five And full of life I'm thinking; And he is glad to be alive, And to his health we're drinking.
Just to remind him with this rhyme: When Birthday Suit he's wearing, Thank the Lord for all the time He and Kathy will be sharing!

Flat Chaos

FLAT CHAOS
(Or Reflections upon a Messy House)

A horizontal surface be A universal malady. Any plane that's somewhat flatter Anything, it doesn't matter, A table, desk, or Windsor chair Will gather junk from everywhere. A kitchen counter, once so clean Gets crowded like a submarine." It gathers everything in sight Accumulating left and right: The recipe you lost last week, The article you found unique. The list of things you need to do That long-lost tube of Super glue. And when you try to clean the mess You move the pile to where? Just guess.. Another horizontal, YES! Like nomads in the deserts hot, We move our junk from spot to spot. And when we really get in gear And stuff the closets front and rear, Or cram it all in plastic bags And file it with the brooms and rags Then all looks clean from door to door Except the piles upon the FLOOR! So hang or drape or tack it high Just hoist it up and let it fly With horizontals--DO AWAY. Go VERTICAL--and save the day!

Birds and Bees

Aviaries–they house birds;
Apiaries, bees.
Aviaries–they are spelled with V’s
But Apiaries P’s

It’s funny, isn’t it
How small the difference be
Between the names of houses
For birds and honey bees?

But then we shouldn’t wonder why
The difference is scant
Both creatures use the air to fly
Both pollinate the plant

And then the adolescent tale
Would never mean as much:
Unless you had both birds AND bees
Explaining sex and such.

They both have sweetness in their beaks
The bird of course in song
The bee out from the flower tweaks
Its honey thick and strong.

Lets be like birds and bees–
Our unique talents use;
To heck with V’s and P’s,
Let’s watch our P’s and Q’s!

A Tribute to Steve Spier on his 80th Birthday

To Steve upon his Eightieth Birthday
May 27, 2013

Here’s a toast to a guy named Steve,
He’s had a life you’ll scarce believe:
Places he’s been, and stuff he’s done;
His lifelong book would weigh a ton!
But I will try in brief to say
Some things about his life today.
In Minnesota he was born,
Perhaps it was a frosty morn.
At any rate his Preacher Dad–
A wand’ring itch he always had—
Miami south he moved his bunch;
They never even stopped for lunch!
Seattle next was home to Steve,
But soon thereafter they would leave.
To Jacksonville his family went
His Dad, he barely had a cent.
Old Ted–his Dad–he trusted God,
As cross the country they did plod.
A capsized trailer; tires blown out;
Left poor Young Stevie full of doubt.
They made it, though, to Jacksonville.
They all were healthy; not one ill.
The war years there were spare and lean
And offshore Nazi subs were seen
But vict’ry gardens got them through
And better days would come they knew.
Then to Atlanta next they moved:
A move I’m sure they all approved.
Doc Smith’s drug store did once employ
Young Stephen as delivery boy
On Cushman scooter he would fly
‘Round Little Five Points and nearby.
The days in Georgia numbered were
Their constant moving seemed a blur
Soon T. J. Spier informed the clan–
Including even newborn Dan–
Saskatchewan would be the place
The Spiers would try to find some space.
Which wasn’t difficult out there.
The western plains had lots of air,
And frost and flies and even heat;
Their nasty climate can’t be beat.
But Steve secured some part-time work:
A farm machinery warehouse clerk.
I’m running out of space and time,
And pretty soon there’ll be no rhyme.
But sadly hasten on I must;
Your patience will endure I trust.
Steve finished up his high school years
In St. Paul once again, my dears.
At Minnehaha (that’s no joke!)
A prep school year for our young bloke.
A part-time job to pay his board
Was pumping gas, but, oh, my Lord!
Some robbers beat him up real bad!
To tell the story makes me sad.
It made the young lad very tough.
The crooks were jailed, and that’s enough!
Then Spokane, Washington, became
The temporary home to claim.
Steve had jobs of various styles:
He lifted, loaded, travelled miles.
He climbed big poles and spliced some wires;
Along the way he quenched some fires
Of lovelorn maidens that he met;
Perhaps such things I should forget!
Korean War next reared its head;
Steve faced at once the draft board dread.
Selective Service you could use:
The branch of service you could choose.
So Coast Guard duty was his choice.
To “Aye, aye, Sir!” he gave his voice.
And here on this Memorial Day,
We salute his service and we say,
“Thanks from all of us to you,
We still are free, and it’s all due
To servicemen and women brave,
Who sacrificed themselves to save
The greatest nation on the earth:
The Face of Freedom from its birth.”
When Coast Guard life was finally through,
Steve had to figure what to do.
He sold some cars and boats awhile,
But those jobs didn’t fit his style.
But then a simple wedding dance
Led Stevie boy to hot romance.
Young Eleanor, a flag corps girl,
Young Stephen gave a dizzy twirl!
Then married they became, you see.
Together still live happily.
Steve worked at many jobs those years,
While making ends meet for the Spiers.
He worked at Lockheed twice ‘tis true,
He went to night school classes, too.
Insurance sales he gave a shot.
To me I think he sold a lot!
The field that gave him his best start
Was drafting, which was very smart,
For I’m an artist, but I’ll say,
His graphic drawings far outweigh
My scratchy outlines by a ton!
At any rate, his drafting skill
Allowed him access to fulfill
A dream career, and nothing less,
Full of promise and success.
Lithonia Lighting, east of town,
Was where old Stephen gained renown.
From draftsman to technician of
The R and D staff, then above,
To manager of testing lab,
And then a new deal he would grab:
A new department was his thing,
A Market Applications wing.
This worked real well, but then Steve went
To field sales—this was heaven-sent–,
For then the engineers could see
What they thought then could never be:
First-class knowledge from the man
Who know how lighting really ran.
The company sales went through the roof,
And Steve Spier’s foresight given proof.
People skills had helped old Steve
Carve out a niche to work and weave
A solid place where all could see
His value to the company.

But family duty was not shirked;
The frugal couple scrimped and worked.
Their offspring grew by bounds and leaps,
Their grocery bills piled up in heaps!
First Lori, Dirk and Tanya came,
Then Dena, “Peewee” was her name.
Poor Eleanor toiled hard at life,
As teacher, mom, and cook and wife.
And Steve coached youth league football teams,
And helped Red Runners reach their dreams.
With grandkids then they both were blest.
Four fine young birds to crowd the nest.
Trevor, Cody, then Garrett came,
The last one Kinsey was by name.
Grandpa Steve is their best friend,
Their love for him—it knows no end.

Steve’s own dream then would soon come true;
One for which he sure was due:
By Steve’s name engineers marked “Yes”
For president of IES.
Worldwide travel far and wide,
Banquets lush for Steve and bride.
China, Russia, other places:
Lots of sights and different faces.
Steve had made it to the top
Of his profession near non-stop.
Great career, you must agree;
He did it all with no degree.

This story has gone on too long;
I probably got some details wrong.
In closing I would like to say
To Stephen Spier on his great day:
You’ve been a rock to those around;
A steady voice with logic sound.
A helpful hand for others’ needs;
A thoughtful eye for future deeds.
A tender heart, no matter what;
A big right foot for kicking butt!

Happy 80th Birthday, Big Brother.

To a Watercolor Teacher Leaving Soon

This is a poem that I wrote to commemorate a great experience that I had taking a watercolor painting class from a wonderful teacher named Fred Graff. We had an intense four-day workshop with him in Mt. Dora, Florida, a beautiful quaint town north of Orlando. It is quite an art community. This poem is a parody or takeoff on A. E. Housman's "To An Athlete Dying Young." You may remember Meryl Streep reciting this poem at the end of "Out of Africa" when Robert Redford's character died. I changed some words, ideas and rhymes to fit the occasion of our workshop, but I think it works pretty well for the occasion.

(with apologies to A.E. Housman)

The week you came for us to meet,
We cheered you down Mt. Dora's Street.
Guys and gals stood list’ning by,
As art you brought us on the fly.

And now, as vanished are our days
Our glasses shoulder-high we raise,
And send you off to your next town,
To add more praise to your renown.

Smart man, to slip betimes away
From all of us this wistful day:
"Cause slowly as the vignette winds,
It dwindles quickly from our minds.

Eyes that long for truth in art,
Can hardly bear to see you part.
Our questions louder sound than fears:
Our ignorance must hurt your ears.

Now you will never see the deed
Of folks that gave your words such heed --
Painters whom renown might score,
And Fred, you opened the door.

So, go, before your echoes fade,
And other artist's brains invade.
And hold the lofty two-inch brush,
And warn against creative rush.

As round that spattered easel grand
We flock to gaze and understand.
And find untarnished there to dwell
Abstract realism done so well.

The Conversion

Wrested from off the dusty plaster wall
Where long it hung a market crucifix,
Push pins had pierced the manufactured holes,
Long languished there in mercantile neglect
Amid the other Christmas stocking blanks,
Hand-painted graphs of erstwhile caribou
And candy canes and horns and dolls and drums
St. Nick and Magi, Bethlehem, and all.

But carefully in tissue tomb it now resides,
Awaiting morphogenesis to come.

Recumbent in her Lazy-Boy my wife
Reclines and carefully unfurls the coil.
Then starched and stiff, the latent prize unfurls
The canvas mesh she straightens on her knee,
And starting like the ancient Eastern kings,
The northeast corner working toward the west
And southward up and down the needle flies.
In subsequential holes, she fills with wool
Or brightly colored silk or cotton thread.

The acupuncture process heals the mass,
Converting fabric plain—mosaic-like,
The loops obliquely march in measured line,
A perfect pyramid emerges strong.

In places where the paint had flatly lain
The seamstress matches hue and tone and shape,
The screen by magic fills and plumps each fold
And trees and bells and sleeves and toys emerge.
Conversion comes at last to lifeless form
A vacant, empty shroud of cloth transformed
To Christmas stocking filled with Christmas joy
To Christmas stocking made with love and care.

Ode to Doris Thomas

I said couldn't write this poem,
I wouldn't even try.
First Of all, these eulogies—
They always make me cry.

Specially when the loved ones
Are oh so dear to me,
As Punk and Doris Thomas
My adopted family.

Dear Doris, whom today we bid
A tearful last goodbye,
Was known and honored far and wide,
And loved by those nearby.

A faithful friend she always was,
So kind and true indeed.
I've often heard her make a call
To those in time of need.

She sacrificed without a thought
Though little time had she
She nursed her sister through the trials
Of chemo therapy.

Her brothers meant so much to her,
And sisters too, I'd say,
In fact she murmured near the end,
"Come, Nancy, let's go play."

Her mom and mom-in-law she nursed
For years when they were ill,
And yet she did her other jobs
And kept her humor still.

She was a loving mother
And a very faithful wife
Together Punk and she worked hard
Throughout their fruitful life.

Young Punk had come in army gear
To Teague's Drug Store on the square
His Sis had told him of a girl—
The prettiest anywhere.

Sweet Doris must have been
A knockout—that is clear.
And Punk—a gallant gentleman
To win her love so dear.

Perhaps she saw a future bright
And gave up drug store work.
This Thomas guy, she realized,
Was no average soda jerk!

At any rate, they raised a bunch
Of Thomas children swell
They lost young Jimmy far too soon,
But others fared real well.

Janie there was, and Randy next
And Rex, and Tony last,
And Doris gave them lessons strong
From present to the past.

She raised those little Thomas kids
In the hilltop house so small,
With bunk beds in the tiny rooms,
Stacked up against the wall.

She sponsored FHA at school,
On bus trips they would go,
She even taught the Spanish class,
Although she "no hablo!"

We loved the Christmas times we had
With Doris and the clan.
She supervised the whole she-bang
With careful thought and plan.

Like Chinese Christmas—it got squelched
After many happy years,
Because in trade Ky lost his knife
And screamed with angry tears.

Cool in crisis Doris was
No matter what the mess,
When she and great gran Riley failed
The golf cart safety test,

They tried to turn the cart around
But that did not work too well
They could not turn the cart enough,
And down the bank it fell!

They'd gone to see the pigs, you see,
And why not take the cart?
It was great fun for two to drive
But wasn't very smart!

She calmly told the toddler brave
To scale the red gulch wall
And summon any passerby
To pull them out and all.

She almost lost her cool one time,
A lizard was the cause,
It got away from Master Shawn,
Who chased it without pause.

Into the sewing room it went,
And underneath the bed,
"Damn lizard," shouted Shawn,
And DeeDee turned beet red.

"Shawn Thomas, watch your mouth,” she cried,
And slapped him with grim wrath,
But then on hands and knees she went,
To trace the lizard's path.

The lizard, not to be outdone,
Bit Doris to the bone,
And, truth be told, she almost loosed
Some cussing of her Own.

Five cancers she had had,
And bypass surgery.
She fought them bravely all away,
Survived them all did she.

But then on early Sunday morn,
Against the eastern sky,
Along the canyon rim she saw
Young Punk all spruced and spry.

He'd brought a wagon fixed up nice,
With flowers and spice and lace
To take the lovely drugstore girl
To a lovely, golden place.

And there together they will play,
On shiny tables new,
With dominoes Of finest pearl
Long games of 42.

Goodbye, Miss Doris, DeeDee dear,
Your fruitful life is past,
But thank you for your love and strength,
Please rest in peace at last.

A Tribute to James Horace Thomas

When Heaven called for Mr. Punk,
He'd had a fruitful life,
One daughter and four sons he'd raised,
With Doris, his dear wife.

Like many Other South plains men,
He'd tilled the soil for bread,
And battled wind, and weeds, and drought,
To keep his family fed.

He did things well and right on time,
And honestly as well,
And no one ever doubted him,
As well as I can tell.

He'd had his little run-ins,
And I can name a few;
But I'll just tell you one I know,
And that will have to do:

There was the time an angry cow—
To guard her newborn calf—
Charged and butted Punk so hard,
It near cut him plum in half!

He'd suffered pains and sicknesses,
And troubles by the score,
But every time we thought "He's done,"
He'd recuperate once more.

There is a vision Punk would see
As he looked outside each day:
Three mounted braves on ponies wild
Appeared across the way.

Upon the caprock canyon's rim,
They rode up from the east,
And looked down on the red brick house,
Not threatened in the least.

Old Punk would wave and wish them well,
And off then they would ride;
The morning Sun would brush with gold
Bronze skin and horse's hide.

On Wednesday last they came again,
To greet as in the past,
But Punk was walking up the hill,
To meet with them at last.

His OshKosh overalls were new,
His sparkling hair was white,
They helped him up and off they rode,
Till they were out of sight.

The Western Channel doesn't reach
To Heaven's TV set,
But Punk won't have to worry,
He's got it better yet:

He gets to talk to Randolph Scott,
And Gary Cooper slim,
And Rex, the Duke, and Dale and Roy
Will gladly welcome him.

And now we've come to lay to rest,
Our Dad and loyal friend,
And we must thank the Lord above
For his peaceful, restful end.

The Stone

A meditation poem I wrote based on the story of Jesus' temptation in Luke Chapter Four.

Forgive me, Lord, that e’er would I have been
The token Satan used to tempt Thy sin;
When Thou, as we, were starved from lack of bread,
And wandered seeking help, and nearly dead.
I would my rocky steps had taken Thee
To earthly power Man so longed to see.
I would my face had caught Thy precious heel
When from the temple roof I saw Thee reel.

But no—

For I am but a tool in Satan’s hands
To tempt away my Lord from God’s great plans.
Use me, instead, in ways that Thou deem fit,
By me show Man the grace that’s freely writ;
Make my hard heart an anvil of Thy might.
Hammer there a tool to guide Man right,
Or plant me as a cornerstone so meek
To gird an altar sinners long to seek,
Or let me lie here ages, day and night,
And wait, and pray, and wonder at Thy might.

Ode to Larry Marchesseau

Ode to a man who was a friend I met through archery and black powder rifle hunting.  He died tragically in a head-on crash near his home.

Ramrod tall and straight he stood
And drew his osage bow.
Back and back he stretched the string
Before he let it go.

With elbow high and anchor firm
He took his deadly aim
His flinty eyes would bore down-range
The ten-ring score to claim

Unleashed, the shaft of river cane
Tore through the morning mist
The turkey feathers spun the shaft
As toward the mark it hissed.

Fist-deep the arrow pierced the foam
Of artificial boar,
Or deer or turkey, wolf or bear,
As Larry upped the score.

We marveled as we watched him shoot--
Jeanine and all us guys--
And though Jeanine could beat us all
Old Larry “took the prize.”

I tried to make him laugh with jokes,
To get him off his game
But never once did laughter spoil
His focus or his aim.

The only thing you had to watch
When he was off your flank,
Was essence of those last night beans
That erupted loud and rank.

For Larry wasn’t squeamish
‘Bout lettin’ loose a poot,
You’d know if from the awful sound,
And smell it in your snoot!

We loved those tournaments we shot
Here, there, and everywhere.
Jeanine and Larry always called
To make sure we were there.

But now we gather here to say
Goodbye to our dear friend.
In this the very pasture
Where often we have been.

Right here Old Larry taught me how
To shoot my flintlock gun:
He showed me how to wad and prime
And fire—my God, what fun!

The deer and turkey still will come
To visit here this year.
They’ll feed and roost and carry on,
And then they’ll disappear.

Perhaps they wonder where the man
Who provided for their needs
Has gone, and if he ever knew
The impact of his deeds.

For Larry cared for all of us
In caring, gentle ways,
And grateful we will always be
For all our livelong days.

Goodbye, tall man with dancing eyes
And thirty-two tooth grin.
We’ll miss your throaty, deep-voiced laugh
And hairy, dark-tanned skin.

You are, no doubt, far better off
Than we who here remain
So raise a glass to our good health
Until we meet again.

Ode to Leroy

This is a poem I wrote while I was head coach at Newton County High School in Covington, Georgia.  An eleventh-grade football player drowned and the coaches had to say something at his funeral.  I wrote this poem and read it at the service.

When Jesus called to Leroy
To climb the golden stair,
He didn't know the glory
Waiting for him there.
The football team in heaven
Is the best you've ever seen,
Every lineman and every back
Is big and fast and lean.
And angels lead the cheers up there,
Waving their golden wings,
And there's always great team spirit,
The victory praises ring.
The crowd will welcome Leroy
With a hallelujah roar,
As he checks into the game,
Wearing No. 34.
And the coach that gives the signals
Is undoubtedly the best,
For Jesus wears the coaching hat
And whistles to the rest.
The devil's troops won't have a chance
On the day of the big game,
With Leroy bustin' holes
And knockin’ demons lame.
I know we're sad to think
He won't be playing here,
But the championship that
Leroy wins is good for every year.
And he'll look down on us
And tell us in his way:
"Y’all fight hard and live for God
And you'll play for us someday."