Lyrics
What is happening? What is up?
Things sure are different than when I was a pup
Five dollar hot dogs, strange, fancy beers
Young skinny boys with their pants below their rears
Young pretty girls who cover up their hair
Bearded lumberjacks everywhere
Nowadays things aren’t what they used to be
You don’t see all the things you used to see
This wasn’t what the place was meant to be
I feel like I’m living in another century
Not sure if it’s a new or an old one
A modest or a bold one
Maybe I’ll move to that place on the shore
Not sure I can take this place any more
But I’m not sure ‘bout the sound of the sea
That's the kinda thing that could really get to me
Call me a curmudgeon, call me a nuisance
When I was a boy, a hot dog cost a few cents
A jar of pickles cost a dollar and a half
Now I see a jar for ten, don’t make me laugh
What did you say? It’s artisanal?
What does that mean? It’s medicinal?
When I was a young man here were like three beers
Now there are breweries comin’ out your ears
Every bar I step into
Has another micro brew
Hearty lager, frothy ale
Muddy brown or deathly pale
Maybe I should go down the 95 corridor
Move in with my sister down in Florida
Sit in swelterin’ tropical heat
Ah, the people down there
They don’t know how to eat!
And what’s with those kids
And the crazy things they wear?
Young pretty girls with scarves on their hair
Don’t they know that’s their prettiest part
That best way to reach a young man’s heart?
And these boys on skateboards
With hats and sunglasses
Loose-fitting jeans that sag below their asses
I can think of nothin’ more obnoxious
Than the sight of a teenager’s boxers
Maybe I’ll stay with my son on Long Island
There at least the streets are silent
But what would I do, how would I keep
It’s too quiet there, how would I sleep?
Now don’t get me started on the guys with bushy beards
That a look that I find a little weird
Every guy’s a mix of Paul Bunyon and Walt Whitman
It’s enough to make me want to call a hit man
Like we used to do in the good old days
There was nothing wrong with the good old days
Ah, who really cares
Hell, I sure don’t
I can’t change them if they sure won’t
I’m too old to change
Don’t tell me I’m not
I’ll just sit here in my shady spot
On my bench here by the park
Where I’ve always left my mark
And who knows, maybe I’ll exchange a few sneers
With the skinny kids with the pants below their rears
Smile at the Muslim girls, the sweet young dears
Try me one of them fancy beers
Say how aw ya to a passing lumberjack
See if he might say how aw ya back
Decide things aren’t quite as bad as I feared
But I won’t, won’t, won’t, won’t , won’t, won’t, won’t
Fuhgeddabowdit
Grow a beard!
All words and music by Dave Hall ©
Publisher: Row House Music PRO: ASCAP
