"Wreck of the Michael Fitzgerald" - Mike's Theme

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"Wreck of the Michael Fitzgerald" - Mike's Theme

Tnova
Administrator
Wreck of the Michael Fitzgerald
by Joe Terranova
(Parody of "Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald" by Gordon Lightfoot)

The legend lives on from the Huskies on down
of the big guy they call "Forrest Gump."
Stony's lake, it is said, has made many nips bled
when the skies in December turn gloomy.
Water bottles in store weighing 5 pounds or more
than Michael Fitzgerald weighed normal,
those old shoes were true but were gonna get chewed
when the "Gales of Stony Creek" were blowing.
 
The lug was the pride of the West Michigan side
coming east from some small town called Portage.
As big runners go, he was bigger than most
'though not as big as he used to be,
ending some days with Pepsi and Frito-Lays
he decided he had to quit lazin'.
And later that night when he checked the website,
he saw that Joe's run times were blazin'.
 
The wind in the trees made a howling sound
and cold through the window was seeping.
And ev'ry runner knew as the bikers did too
'twas a day not to run but for sleeping.
Mike woke up late and the breakfast had to wait
when the lure of Paint Creek came a callin'.
By the time he arrived it was freezin' rain
in the face of a hard blowing west wind.
 
When he pulled in the lot good old Argenta walked up
"It's just a minor breeze" she was sayin'.
But by mile two all their fingers were blue; Mike said,
"They all were right she is crazy!"
Big Joe texted them "no way u did not run"
and the running club did not believe them.
And later that night when he went out for the night
came the wreck of the Michael Fitzgerald.
 
Does anyone know where the brain of guys go
when the lure of hard liquor comes calling?
His friends all say the night would have ended okay
if he'd drank fifteen less margaritas.
He might have got lost or he might have fell down;
he may have went home with a stranger.
But how he awoke in his bed the next day
is unknown to his wife and his youngsters.
 
John Hodgson rolls, Argenta does sing
on the roads and the trails of Rochester.
Neil Hayner steams like I do in my dreams;
though his training schedule's a disaster.
And back in the pack Sarah does like to yak
with Anna and Herm and Kris Mooney,
And the posers all go as Sue SiraGU knows
With the gales of Stony Creek remembered.
 
In a musty old room in Chicago he'll stay,
in the Holiday Inn Express Hotel.
The alarm will chime and he'll rise up in time
to hit that famous Chitown course.
The legend lives on from the Huskies on down
of the big guy they call "Forrest Gump."
Stony's lake, it is said, trained him well in the head
when the Marathon gun goes so early!


=============================================

Original Version


Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald
by Gordon Lightfoot

The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down
of the big lake they called "Gitche Gumee."
The lake, it is said, never gives up her dead
when the skies of November turn gloomy.
With a load of iron ore twenty-six thousand tons more
than the Edmund Fitzgerald weighed empty,
that good ship and true was a bone to be chewed
when the "Gales of November" came early.

The ship was the pride of the American side
coming back from some mill in Wisconsin.
As the big freighters go, it was bigger than most
with a crew and good captain well seasoned,
concluding some terms with a couple of steel firms
when they left fully loaded for Cleveland.
And later that night when the ship's bell rang,
could it be the north wind they'd been feelin'?

The wind in the wires made a tattle-tale sound
and a wave broke over the railing.
And ev'ry man knew, as the captain did too
'twas the witch of November come stealin'.
The dawn came late and the breakfast had to wait
when the Gales of November came slashin'.
When afternoon came it was freezin' rain
in the face of a hurricane west wind.

When suppertime came the old cook came on deck sayin'.
"Fellas, it's too rough t'feed ya."
At seven P.M. a main hatchway caved in; he said,
"Fellas, it's bin good t'know ya!"
The captain wired in he had water comin' in
and the good ship and crew was in peril.
And later that night when 'is lights went outta sight
came the wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.

Does any one know where the love of God goes
when the waves turn the minutes to hours?
The searchers all say they'd have made Whitefish Bay
if they'd put fifteen more miles behind 'er.
They might have split up or they might have capsized;
they may have broke deep and took water.
And all that remains is the faces and the names
of the wives and the sons and the daughters.

Lake Huron rolls, Superior sings
in the rooms of her ice-water mansion.
Old Michigan steams like a young man's dreams;
the islands and bays are for sportsmen.
And farther below Lake Ontario
takes in what Lake Erie can send her,
And the iron boats go as the mariners all know
with the Gales of November remembered.

In a musty old hall in Detroit they prayed,
in the "Maritime Sailors' Cathedral."
The church bell chimed 'til it rang twenty-nine times
for each man on the Edmund Fitzgerald.
The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down
of the big lake they call "Gitche Gumee."
"Superior," they said, "never gives up her dead
when the gales of November come early!"