Soph*more year
You rushed for an average of eight and third yards per carry
All eyes were on you
Junior year
You blew your knee out at an out town game
Nowhere to go but down, down, down
Nothing but the ground left for you to fall to
By July
You'd made a whole bunch of brand new friends
People you used to look down on
And you'd figured out a way to make real money
Giving ends to your friends and it felt stupendous
Chrome spokes on your Japanese bike
But selling acid was a bad idea
And selling it to a cop was a worse one
And the new law said that seventeen year olds could do federal time
You were the first one
So I sing this song for you
William Stanaforth Donahue
Your grandfather rode the boat over from Ireland
But you made a bad decision or two