OLDIES IN NEW ORLEANS

Excited to be back in our favorite city

J and K's new home, so spacious and pretty

They’ve moved to Wirth Place 

For our youth, a new base 

And don’t forget Li’l Paws and the kitty 

Our first night, J made Skyline Chili 

NOLA Skyline might sound a bit silly 

But it tasted so good 

We knew that he could 

This Big Easy creation was a dilly 

The Southern Jewish Museum is grand 

Gripping stories presented firsthand 

It touched upon fears 

And we shed a few tears 

Jews making the rural South their homeland 

K brought us to lunch at Freret Faire 

Rouse’s deli with their own pastrami flair 

The guy messed up our check 

Saved five dollars by heck 

I stayed silent, pretended we were square 

Our grandkids’ report cards, straight A’s 

Their teachers had nothing but praise 

Math and English and art 

To excel takes such heart 

Eighth grade mastered, A and L do amaze 

Dat Dog has the fanciest treats 

Alligator sausage, weirdest of meats 

We took a bench outside 

Stuffed our guts till we cried 

Then rode home on the bumpiest streets 

We went to the Newman High game 

Arch Manning’s already gained fame 

He’s headed for Texas 

Perhaps with a Lexus 

But Arch’s team, I must say, they looked lame 

To the Quarter and the famous Redfish Grill 

Delicious plus a not-too-bad bill 

For me, a po-boy

Raw oysters, Katja’s joy 

Redfish chefs have the best Cajun skill 

Thanksgiving p.m., to the track 

People costumed like Lulu and Mac 

Our group bet some dough 

But our nags were too slow 

So we bugged out, came home for a snack 

J cooked up a twenty-pound turkey 

Filled its skin with butter, so quirky 

All the family did sides 

Boosted triglycerides 

So scrumptious we all felt quite perky 

At the Orleans Historic Collection 

A tour of Notre Dame’s resurrection 

Viewed a digital display 

Filmed from every which way 

Holy Moly, this cathedral nears perfection 

 Off to Marsalis Park, the Art Mart 

 Paintings, jewelry, we loved every part 

 Classic New Orleans scenes 

 And the pics of drag queens 

 All that beauty infuses one’s heart 

Ted’s Frostop is a circa fifties diner 

Never been to a diner that’s finer 

Their burgers were tops 

Not to mention soda pops 

Dreamed up by some kitschy designer 

We shopped at the parkway Goodwill 

My black leather belt, such a thrill 

It cost just six bucks

And it’s ultra-deluxe 

It will last till I’m in the landfill 

Our group did the Museum of Art 

Black photographers, portraits so smart 

Bourgeois in acrylic 

Surreal scenes idyllic 

Too sad that we had to depart 

We watched the Big Ten’s top-ranked game 

U. of M., O.S.U., such acclaim 

And wonder of wonders 

The Buckeyes made blunders 

And our Wolverines affirmed their fierce name 

M.S. Rau sells antiques and fine art 

It helps set Royal Street apart 

Picasso, a million two 

Chagall prices, “Whew Whew” 

A million-dollar chess set tickled my heart 

La Crepe Nanou on our very last night 

The perfect wind-up ahead of our flight 

My salmon was delicious 

The dessert was capricious 

Nanou was a connoisseur’s delight 

To the airport, beignets at Morning Call 

Big jolts of strong coffee for all 

So sad to be leaving 

Already we’re grieving 

This trip, we agree, was a ball

WHERE I AM FROM

 

I was born and grew up in Menominee, Michigan,

the seat of Menominee County, 

on the Michigan-Wisconsin border, 

the gateway to the Upper Peninsula, 

halfway between the Equator and the North Pole, 

population about 10,000 in 1940, 

the fourth largest city in the U.P., 

bordered by the Menominee River to the south 

and Lake Michigan’s bay of Green Bay to the east, 

twin city to Marinette, Wisconsin, 

172 miles north of Milwaukee, 

120 miles south of Lake Superior. 

5.2 square miles, I could reach any 

point in town on my bike in ten minutes. 

Menominee has always enjoyed perfect air, 

its stars glisten at night, 

its water quality is excellent, 

summer temperatures in the seventies, 

and winters enjoy an average 

annual snowfall of 48 inches.* 

“Menominee” means “land of wild rice”, 

the staple of the Menominee Indians 

who originally populated the region. 

The world capital of logging in the 1890’s, 

Menominee was destined 

to become a manufacturing town: 

paper products, wicker furniture, auto supplies. 

The business district spreads along the Green Bay shore. 

Montgomery Ward, the A&P grocery store, 

the Five and Dime, the G.I. Surplus store, 

the Vogue for women’s clothes. 

Once home to fur trappers, lumberjacks, and Great Lakes seamen, 

Menominee in my youth was a man’s world. 

My mother and her women friends 

each raised three or four children, 

managed their households, 

tended eye-catching gardens, 

and were skilled at hostessing 

grand parties in their homes. 

Men were breadwinners and captains of the ship, 

fanatic about the Green Bay Packers, 

spent days at hunting camp each November, 

played poker weekly, drank 

too much, told raunchy stories. 

As boys we learned that males 

should be strong, independent, 

athletic, emotionally unexpressive, 

and disinterested in school. 

Boys took wood shop and auto shop, 

girls took home ec and typing. 

As a small town in a rural region 

Menominee had no art museums or galleries, 

no community exposure to classical music, 

no professional theater, 

a low percentage of college graduates. 

One traffic light, two movie theaters, 

one public and one parochial high school, 

eight taverns, fifteen churches. 

Two dips of ice cream cost a nickel at the Ideal Dairy. 

Diversity was an unknown concept. 

Ninety-nine percent white, 

ninety-nine percent Christian 

(among those professing religion). 

A blue-collar Democratic stronghold in my youth, 

65 percent of residents voted for Trump in 2020. 

High school football reigns supreme. 

The M&M (Menominee-Marinette) game 

is the oldest interstate public school rivalry in the nation, 

and the Menominee Maroons have won three state championships

in their division in the last 25 years. 

Crime was infrequent, and parents never worried 

about letting their children run free in the neighborhood. 

Menominee’s most attractive features 

have to do with its outdoor life. 

It’s an important Lake Michigan port, 

hosts a thriving marina, 

and many locals own sailboats or power boats. 

Menominee County has the largest 

deer population in the U.P., 

and schools closed each year for the first day of hunting season. 

Nearly every family owns guns, 

and the annual murder rate is almost always zero. 

Green Bay beaches are numerous, 

and Menominee has some of the best bass fishing in the nation. 

There are seven golf courses in the area. 

 Camping, swimming, hiking, biking, 

snowmobiling, skating, ice-sailing, cross-country skiing. 

 It’s a good place for kids to grow up 

although a majority usually leave for more cosmopolitan places. 

 *Stats from: www.city-data.com

WRESTLING WITH IKO

 

Our schnauzer is a world-class sleeper 

until I get up and get dressed 

whereupon he comes to the edge of the bed, 

leaps up on his hind legs, 

and paws ferociously at the air. 

Rrrhhaahg Aarghhh Arrrhh 

“Okay Iko, you’re asking for it.” 

I push his shoulders down, press on his snout. 

Grahmmg Rrahgg 

Iko jerks his head free and snaps at my wrist 

but I grab him by a back leg 

and spank his hind-quarters. 

“Rub-a-dub-a-dub.” 

Ghrrarr Rrahrr 

Iko snaps, I give him a poke. 

Over he goes onto his back. 

Whrahhrrr Arghhaah 

Bouncing this way and that, 

kicking his legs in the air, 

Ggrrhhm grraahh 

I punch him gently in the ribs. 

“Take that, Mister.” 

Iko twists all 22 pounds back and forth 

and tries to bite my forearm. 

Brrggg Rrufff Rff Rff 

He rolls back onto his feet 

and shakes his head. 

Grrahh Rrgghhh 

Grips my right hand in his mouth. 

“Ouch. Not so rough, Buster.” 

I shove my knuckles against his teeth. 

Iko twists and turns, backs up and growls. 

Rrahgga rhurgg 

And so it goes, on and on, 

until we finally get tired. 

“Okay, let’s go.”

 Iko leaps down onto the carpet 

 and out we head for our morning walk. 

 Rmmff Grahhrrr

I AM COUNTING ON WORDLE

 

I wake each morning at half past nine, 

brush my teeth, swallow my pills, 

brew the coffee, 

then tackle the daily Wordle. 

Wordle is what gives me life hope. 

Like mother love 

or finding a twenty-dollar bill. 

A mind-tickler, a super-vitamin, 

keeping my neurons and protons firing, 

the red blood pumping to my frontal lobes. 

One gets six guesses to find the secret word 

but four or five are usually enough. 

Three are cause for celebration, 

two are like winning the lottery. 

This is why Wordle is addictive. 

Mental strain, yes, but 

one success after the next. 

I play Wordle with the multitudes, 

fellow Wordlers in Stockholm and San Salvador, 

Cedar Rapids and Missoula. 

Republicans and Democrats, 

Blacks and Whites, 

Church-goers and atheists. 

Billions of Wordlers, 

all working together 

toward a single goal. 

My son does Wordle too. 

He is more successful because 

he belongs to a more woke generation. 

The New York Times tells me how 

my results compare with the masses. 

I am proud to report that I am 

almost always a perfect average. 

A reassuring accomplishment

for one who worries 

that his brain might be getting wobbly.

A BOWERY TALE

 

                                                                  with nods to Robert W. Service and the Salvation Army 

When I reached age twenty and thought I knew plenty I moved to New York to find work 

Fresh from the U.P. and thrilled to be free the city was a mind-blowing perk 

For I longed to be a writer who would make the days brighter and I scoured the Big Apple for material 

Ten million stories full of heartbreak and glories and characters whose lives felt ethereal 

The Bowery was the best with its souls dispossessed who hoped they’d survive through the night 

So I started going down and just hanging around to gather strange tales to write 

There were lots of old drunks and a few mean-eyed punks but most chaps were docile and kind 

I’d pay for their beer which produced lots of cheer and they’d tell me dark secrets on their mind 

One day I drank a lot and didn’t feel so hot so I headed for the subway uptown 

The mission’s service was starting so instead of departing I decided I ought to stick around 

The room was jam-packed with no space at the back but the front row contained one last seat 

There were hundreds of men who were back once again and were desperate for something to eat 

The mission served dinners but their true aim was sinners so a sermon preceded the meal 

Major Cherney had zip and she shot from the hip, saying winos deserve a fair deal 

Major wound up her thing by insisting we sing, then invited non-diners to go 

Not planning to eat I got up from my seat and the crowd whispered, “This guy’s so slow” 

Major pointed to the rear and though wobbly from beer I finally stumbled to a door 

The hall was pitch black and I nearly turned back when a grasping hand shook me to the core 

It was Captain Olive Green in her uniform pristine whose intent was to save me from my fate 

She asked lots of stuff about life being rough and dissected my addled mental state 

I vowed to leave skid row, work to conquer my woe, and hopefully regain my lost pride 

Olive said that the Army ran a mission less smarmy way up on the Upper East Side 

I promised to attend although that was pretend and my only desire was escape 

Captain Olive wished me well, said I wasn’t bound for Hell, and prayed I would wind up shipshape 

So my last Bowery visit was less than exquisite and the time came to say my farewell 

And yet, nonetheless, I am happy to confess that I did find a story to tell

OUR U.P. ROAD TRIP: A VILLANELLE

 

A grand adventure with our frisky CR-V 

Passing Milwaukee the very first day 

We are back in the wild and wondrous U.P.  

Lunch break at Culvers in Wausaukee 

Butterburgers, custard, our diets now astray 

A grand adventure with our frisky CR-V 

The Interstate Bridge to Menominee 

Sheridan Road tracks the shore of Green Bay 

We are back in the wild and wondrous U.P. 

Our family is here, such hoopla and glee 

The kids at Farm do their artwork and play 

A grand adventure with our frisky CR-V 

Katja does the fudge store, the thrift shops for me 

My birthday at Berg’s Landing, the high point of our stay 

We are back in the wild and wondrous U.P. 

A time to share, be laid back and carefree 

It feeds one’s soul to travel so far away 

A grand adventure with our frisky CR-V 

We are back in the wild and wondrous U.P.

AT THE SYMPHONY

 

Schumann 

Wonder how long it will be? 

Should be pleasant 

These are really good seats 

Probably cost a fortune 

Katja should have asked me 

Balcony would have been fine 

Maybe even better 

That woman has pretty hair 

I wonder if it’s natural 

Unusual color 

Must be dyed 

I need a haircut so badly 

I hate going to the barber 

Hate having to make small talk 

It doesn’t matter 

I don’t need to look decent 

I don’t even need to shave 

A retirement perk 

I wonder how the department is doing? 

It’s amazing how quickly I forgot my career 

I never give it a thought 

They’ve probably forgotten me too 

I do still have all my books and papers 

What will happen to my stuff when I die?   

We don’t even have graves at Spring Grove 

I want to be cremated 

but I’ll probably die first 

and Katja will stick me in a casket 

Charles died last week 

I am running out of friends  

They either die or move away 

We’ll have to get along on our own I

hope we’re able to stay in our house 

Whoops, there’s the end 

(I stand and applaud enthusiastically)

EIGHTY-FIVE AND STILL CHIRPING

Though uninvited

and hardly welcome, 

my eighty-fifth birthday 

arrived today and settled in.    

Holy Mackerel, eighty-five.  

How did that happen?

According to gerontologists, I now belong  

to the “oldest old” category.

That’s annoying actually.  

It’s true that I am definitely older 

than I ever was before,

but I’ve quite a ways to go 

before I reach my “oldest”.  

These first eighty-five years have 

been full of surprises and pleasantries. 

Parents and siblings, school, marriage,

fatherhood, home, career, dogs, and 

now my leisurely retirement years 

filled with poetry writing

and contemplation.  

In some ways these years are the best. 

I have occasional regrets, of course, 

but that’s a built-in part of life.  

A while ago my doctor 

said I don’t look my age

and I don’t act my age

but I should keep in mind

that I am my age.    

At first that struck me as profound

but now I’m having second thoughts. 

Eighty-five is not a fixed thing 

like an iPad or a fire hydrant.     

There are as many different ways

of being eighty-five as there are 

grasshoppers in the meadow 

or tadpoles in the brook.  

My year ahead promises

to be comfortable and rewarding. 

We expected to celebrate my birthday 

by going to the Warren County Fair

but the heat advisory crimped our style

and we’ll do a seafood restaurant instead.  

All in all, I think I will  

embrace eight-five and  

try to outwit the prognosticators. 

That’s my birthday strategy,  

at least for the time being.      

JUNE WAS BURSTING WITH EXCITEMENT

 

So perplexing this weird month of June 

It’s been hotter than a Sierra wildfire 

I hope that I’ll see my sister soon 

In the meantime we’ll sit and perspire 

We’ve been watching the hearings on January Six 

The picture gets worse by the day 

Trump has been up to his most evil tricks 

I hope he's charged with nine counts of foul play 

French Open tennis, a most historic scene 

Nadal faced Norwegian Casper Ruud 

A straight set win, Rafa’s number fourteen 

Casper, outclassed, was a feckless dude 

Stephen Curry and pals played their finest hoops 

The Warriors won the entire shebang 

My sister Vicki cheered faithfully for the troops 

Now time to relax from the Sturm und Drang 

Our Improv class performed its last show 

A melodrama, “The Factory of Despair” 

We improv’d lines in the ongoing flow 

The teacher’s reaction, “Keen wit and fine flair” 

We attended a friend’s birthday party 

A boat trip along the Ohio 

The crowd was cool and arty 

So long Covid, Oh Me-O-Mio 

Katja’s purse disappeared one day 

We searched every inch of each room 

She called up Visa in utter dismay 

But there was her purse by the broom 

Each night I baited two traps with cheese 

Each morning two bodies of mice 

Murdering mice makes me feel like a sleaze 

One more smallish mouse might suffice 

Our attic air conditioner broke again 

The water poured right through the ceiling 

I first saw a pool on the rug in our den 

“Dog bladder mishap” was my feeling 

Our attic is home to a sizeable beast 

Perhaps an opossum, perhaps a raccoon 

Each night the bumping noises have increased 

We will call the trapper number pretty soon 

Our little dog Iko hates firecrackers 

He whines and crawls under the bed 

I get a bit peeved with the neighborhood slackers 

Though I know there are worse things to dread 

OLLI has started a new poetry group 

It meets every Thursday for eight weeks 

Just what I need to stay in the loop 

And fiddle with poetic techniques

WRITING POETRY

 

Writing a poem is harder 

than walking the dog or 

raking the lawn. 

It’s more akin to 

painting a watercolor 

or cooking a souffle. 

The start’s the worst,  

the foreboding blank page. 

My first few lines are 

trite, blah, so discouraging, 

but I talk myself into persisting. 

I get most inspired when 

writing tales of my childhood. 

In truth, I was an unhappy child 

but in my dotage I permit 

only positive memories. 

My poetic aim is to provide myself 

with a more enjoyable youth. 

My most intractable problem is that 

I’m not naturally poetic. 

I write more like a bookkeeper 

or perhaps an airline pilot. 

Nothing emotional or ambiguous. 

Just clear and to the point. 

I do like to rhyme 

though that’s not in vogue. 

I write more freely 

after a shot or two of Irish whiskey. 

A little buzz loosens me up 

and I can always rewrite another time. 

Every morning I brush my teeth, 

take my pills, and then compose a limerick 

about an event from the previous day. 

My pre-coffee limericks 

are quick and raggedy 

but they remind me that poetry 

is part of my daily existence 

and that I have produced 

something tangible that no one 

has ever thought of before 

(no matter how measly).

LEMON FLAKE

 

If I were to live my life over 

And could choose just five things to repeat 

My very first choice would be Lemon Flake 

Since age ten it’s my number one treat 

They made Lemon Flake at the Ideal Dairy 

They charged just two dips for a nickel 

All of their flavors were scrumptious 

Pineapple and Peach, not to mention Butter Brickle 

 On Sundays my dad brought us to the Ideal 

 Just up the road on Route Five-Seventy-Seven 

 He let us order all the dips that we wanted 

 For kids this was better than Heaven 

 Lemon Flake, of course, was always my choice 

 So creamy and tangy and rich 

 I’d drool at the very thought of it 

 One lick, my nose started to itch 

I’d stop after school, buy a six dip cone 

Ride home on my bike with one hand 

Six dips would last the entire mile 

Who could imagine anything more grand? 

The Ideal shut down after I moved away 

I’ve searched for Lemon Flake every year 

Not in Chicago, New York, or Green Bay 

Gone forever is my doleful fear 

THE END

 

A woman’s voice, barely a whisper, 

“Time to close him down.” 

A still softer voice grunts assent. 

Then a loud screeching sound

like a rusty metal door 

scraping across coarse paving stones, 

fading into an empty black void, 

no sound, no touch, no sensation, 

until a brightly lit portal opens

and my comatose body is being 

propelled through space, 

a kaleidoscope of brilliant colors 

flashing on every side. 

Suddenly a burst of dazzling white rays, 

and a second portal opens, 

giving way to a gentle meadow, 

golden flowers swaying in the breeze, 

hummingbirds and butterflies. 

A familiar voice calls out, 

"We’ve been waiting.” 

My father is alive, 

a young and handsome man, 

my mother standing with him, 

so beautiful. 

The three of us embrace, 

I never dared to dream 

that I could be whole again.

The Slap

 

Chris Rock is a sharp-witted fellow 

but some think he crossed the line 

when he ad-libbed his joke at the Oscars 

about Jada Pinkett-Smith’s closely shaven head. 

“Jada, I love you, ‘G.I Jane 2,’ can’t wait to see it.” 

Jada’s husband Will Smith laughed for a second 

but then his inner demons took over and 

he left his chair and strode to the stage 

and smacked Chris Rock in the face. 

“Keep my wife’s name out of your fucking mouth!” 

“Keep my wife’s name out of your fucking mouth!” 

The audience gasped. Was this staged? 

ABC televised the slap but bleeped the coarse words 

and promptly cut to a commercial break. 

Denzel Washington rushed to Will Smith’s aid 

and officials asked Will to leave the room 

but he wouldn’t move from his chair. 

Forty minutes later he was back on stage 

to receive the Best Actor award 

for his portrayal of Richard Williams,  

Venus and Serena’s volatile dad. 

The Hollywood audience 

burst into a standing ovation. 

In a sobbing, rambling speech 

Will Smith apologized to the Academy 

and to his fellow nominees, 

likening himself to Richard Williams, 

 “a fierce defender of his family.” 

Meanwhile Jane Campion won for Best Director 

and Coda was deemed the Best Picture, 

but six months from now 

all we’ll remember of the 2022 Oscars 

is Will Smith slapping Chris Rock.

SUPER BOWL FIFTY-SIX

 

2022 was our Bengal’s year 

Our return from decades of despair 

Who would have guessed the Super Bowl? 

The thought of it, too much to bear 

The Bengals won the toss and deferred 

Stafford sacked, the Rams had to punt 

Then Burrow’s pass was deflected 

The Rams were back in the hunt 

Stafford to Beckham, the first touchdown 

Then McPherson kicked a Bengals' field goal 

But the Rams marched back down the field 

Touchdown two put them back in control 

The Bengals soon came storming back 

Joe Mixon passed for a trick play 

Tee Higgins caught the ball for a touchdown 

The Rams, 13-10, on the day 

Quarter three, Tee Higgins scored a touchdown 

Even though he grabbed Ramsey’s facemask 

Then the Bengals intercepted Stafford 

Kicker Evan McPherson, up to the task

Fourth quarter, the ball went back and forth 

The Rams finally scored on a one-yard pass 

The Bengal got the ball with one twenty-five left 

But Joe Burrow’s team ran out of gas 

The final score, twenty-three to twenty 

 It easily could have gone the other way 

But our Bengals had a fantastic season 

And we think it a truly great day

NEWS OF THE DAY

 

The president’s numbers are low 

The midterm forecast, pure woe 

The voters are bitter

Mass outrage on Twitter 

The Dems better raise lots of dough 

The Omicron variant is here 

The scariest time of the year 

It spreads like wildfire 

Oldies’ outlooks are dire 

Once again locked away by our fear 

The committee’s investigating the Jan. 6 attack 

We, the public, await their feedback 

Team Trump won’t comply 

Obeying orders from on high 

Even so the committee’s on track 

"Legitimate political discourse” 

That’s the violent insurrection, of course 

The RNC is insane 

Echoing Trump’s false refrain 

When even Mitch McConnell has changed course 

Twitter cancelled Rep. Taylor Greene 

For lying about the vaccine 

Marjorie didn’t blink 

She relishes a stink 

And has endless other ways to be obscene 

Novak Djokovic is under the gun 

He’s put off seeking number twenty-one 

Novak fears the vaccine 

Imagines side effects unseen 

So this year's Grand Slams may be done 

The U. of M. Prez lost his job 

Because of his secret heartthrob 

Emails eking affection 

Hints of carnal predilection 

So Schlissel went out with a sob 

And CNN’S Jeff Zucker resigned 

His love interest put left him in a bind 

Though both were divorced 

Disclosure rules were enforced 

So now Jeff is badly maligned 

The Queen gave the Duchess her blessing

“I’m Queen Consort,” said Camilla, effervescing 

Prince Charles, so glad 

Though Prince Harry is mad 

The monarchy needs this, I’m guessing

TOP CINCY NEWS STORIES OF 2021

 

The cicadas came out in mid-May 

 Several billion to locals’ dismay 

 Their songs made a roar 

 Like a Beelzebub snore 

 Then we watched their small corpses decay 

 December twelve, our first Omicron case 

 Now it’s spreading at tsunami pace 

The hospitals are packed 

Rampant illness, a fact 

 Please please keep a mask on your face 

 Mason deemed itself a sanctuary city 

“No abortions” became their new ditty 

 But there’s no clinic there 

 So their claim was hot air 

 Then they voted out the pro-life committee 

 Our West Chester rep made the news 

 She broadcast Doc Truepenny’s views 

 This vaccine, the doc said, 

 Magnetizes your head 

 And causes your eyeballs to ooze 

 The old winning Bengals have returned 

 The Steelers, the Ravens, we burned 

 Our offense is quick 

 Our defense, like a brick 

 The North div first place our team earned 

 Mayor Cranley threw his hat in the race 

 Buckeye governor, he’s pleading his case

Legal weed is his pitch 

 It will make cronies rich 

 Cranley counts on a pot-smoking base 

 Aftab Pureval won the election 

 The new mayor, he’s the Democrats’ selection 

 Aftab thumped David Mann 

With his neighborhood plan 

 The Queen City has a fresh new direction 

 Chad Johnson left a thousand dollar tip 

After eating a yummy French Dip 

 He was at Redlands Grill 

Servers rave about it still 

 I hope they all went on a trip 

 Dusty Rhodes tweeted anti-trans trash 

“Fuck off,” tweeted Seelbach, so brash 

Dusty dropped from the race 

Seelbach made a wry face 

And that was the end of the clash 

 The Bearcats made the playoffs this year 

 In Clifton we’ve had much to cheer 

 But ‘Bama was too mighty 

 And our offense proved flighty 

 So we fans are now sobbing in our beer