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

Beards & Beer