A long, long time ago, I can still remember how the NBA would make me smile/When everyone from Larry Nance/To Muggsy Bogues wore tiny pants/And pulled their socks up Michael Cooper-style.
But now these guys are choking coaches/Skipping practice, smoking roaches/While swaddled in Versace/ Bejeweled like Liberace.
I can't remember if I spewed/When Rodman first posed in the nude/But now that everyone's tattooed/The league, we fear, is screwed/So....
Bye bye Magic, Larry and Mike/See ya later, Granville Waiters, Dyan Cannon and Spike/And somewhere Grateful Red is riding his bike/Singing, "Let me tell you what it was like/This is what our heyday was like":
Did you wear a pair of Cons?/And do you have faith in leprechauns?/If Dick Stockton tells you so.
And do you believe in Garden ghosts/The Father, Son and Johnny Most/And Kevin taught me how to play the post.
Well I know that you hate Bill Laimbeer/'Cause when Parish punched him in the ear/We both got up to dance/And dig my parachute pants.
I was a lonely '80s teenage nerd/With a pink retainer and a thing for Bird/But my adolescent heart murmured/Bestirred, by Celtic Pride/But now I'm singin'...