Ode to Bruce

On the ski slopes, day
Is a time to play
And night is a time to talk.
And at any bar
Where the skiers are
Flow tales of the snow and rock.

But when night grows cold,
There are stories told
That will fill your soul with fear,
For the darkness brings
Out the kinds of things
That you just don’t want to hear.

It was there one night
That I first caught sight
Of the man with the wooden knee
And his name was Bruce
And his pants flapped loose,
As he told this tale to me.

I could ski, he said,
Till my knee went dead,
And I split my pants as well.
And they’ve been that way
Since the fateful day
On a slope straight out of hell.

It’s a mountain top
Where you’re gonna drop
Like a climber from a rope.
It is fast and slick
And you’d best learn quick
And they call it the...bunny slope.

And if you wipe out,
Stranger, there’s no doubt
It’s an unforgiving place
Dwight won’t help you--no--
He’ll just spray that snow
In your cold pathetic face.

Stranger, you can bet
I will not forget
All those Keystone slopes--the fears.
Where I tried to teach
Heather, Amy--each
Left me traumatized for years.

Oh the Wolcott two
Were so sweet--who knew
Who could ever hope to know
That such sweet young things
Were the kind that brings
All the worst of luck in tow.

Hey, until they came
Fate was just a game,
Life was just a race sublime.
Dwight and Calvin tried
But I’d hit my stride
And I’d beat them every time.

But the Wolcott two--
Oh I know they knew
Down deep in their hearts that day
That the slopes of ice
Would exact their price
And that I’d be the one to pay.

Well they rode the lift
And they found a drift
And they turned their skis around
And I tried to plead
But they paid no heed
And they said, “We’re skiing down.”

Oh they zigged and zagged,
And they scraped and dragged,
And they clutched and clawed and scratched,
And their ski poles dropped
And they somehow stopped
With their main parts still attached.

And they clung to me
Till I couldn’t ski
Till my body ached and groaned...
Then a silence fell,
For he couldn’t tell
Any more, but he sighed and moaned.

And I pulled up near
And I saw a tear.
And it fell on his wooden knee
And he said, “I’m done
Skiing’s just not fun,
It is volleyball for me.

Now, say, do you think
You could pour a drink
And spare me a dime or two
And perhaps, if not,
Could you spare a thought
For the things that I’ve been through?”

And he drank it straight
It was pure V8
He was in some sort of trance
And his eyes were wild
And the snow was piled,
And he never had a chance.

And he moaned, those lifts
And those awful drifts
And the dreaded deep crevasse
First, you’re on your skis,
Then you’re on your knees,
Then you’re on...well, let’s let it pass.

For they fell on me
And they grabbed my knee
And they tried to stand up straight
And I pulled and then
They would fall again
And I’d stop and stand and wait.

Now my days I spend
In the bars, my friend,
Of the ski slopes far and wide
And I never fail
To recite my tale
And I’m not without my pride.

So promise me
If they come to ski
And they ask you for a guide,
That you’ll think of me
And my wooden knee,
And you’ll turn and run and hide.