One time you were a glowing young ruffian. Oh my god, it was a million years ago.
One more time, one more time, color flashing neon sign. Advertising a friend of my distraction, latest attraction.
But I reached into my pocket found three twenties and a ten, it feels so good feelin’ good again.
Down in Dealey Plaza, the tourists mill about. And I am far from where we live, and I have not learned how to forgive, but I will wait, I will wait, I will wait.
If this isn’t what you see, it doesn’t make you blind. Yeah, if this doesn’t make you feel, it doesn’t mean you’ve died.
Do you know how the west was won? I fixed my speed in the middle lane, turned on the radio.
I *am* big, it’s the prospects that got small.
Another offseason spent beefing up the bullpen in Boston, this time with Tyler Thornburg.
Nothing new and nothing old, the chilling warmth of the scorching cold.
There is a wait so long (so long, so long). You’ll never wait so long.
Jon Jay’s arrival in Chicago means Dexter Fowler is going elsewhere, and the Braves and Mariners make a minors trade.
And it’s gonna be just you and me today, waiting for the other shoe to drop in Tampa Bay.
We should have known, huh? You can always tell the winners at the starting gate. You can always tell the winners, and you can tell the losers.
You either win it or you don’t. It happens now, unless it won’t.
“Frank, prospects in Miami are like… [puts on sunglasses] a fish out of water.” YEEEEEEEAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!
I’m waiting, I’m waiting for a sign. Waiting for something, got nothing but time.