The Day The Roundball Died

The players now who make the news/Are pressing SNOOZE, or baiting Jews/And LJ said, We're all high-priced slaves....

And though Shaq be nimble, Shaq be quick/Each Shaq foul shot's a red house brick/And Calvin Murphy's looking very grave....

And as they watched him getting T'd/The crowd was baffled by Rasheed/And everywhere was bling-bling/And more tattoos than Sing Sing.

When Bird was sidelined by his back/He sacro-ficed his iliac/So Kobe could one day dis Shaq/Alack, the game has died. And so we're singin'...

(CHORUS)

I met a man without a vowel/And asked him if he'd wave his towel/But M.L. smiled and turned away....

I went down to the parquet floor/Where I'd heard the music years before/But the man there said the music wouldn't play....

And in the streets the children wept/And J.R. Rider overslept/But here no sound was uttered/The churchyard, it was shuttered.

And the three men who were there interred/Magic, Mike and Larry Bird/They didn't have to say a word/But heard, I'm sure, my sigh. I started singin'...

Bye bye Magic, Larry and Mike/See ya later Granville Waiters, Dyan Cannon and Spike/And somewhere Grateful Red is riding his bike/Singin', "Let me tell you what it was like...."