Paul Simon

night game

There were two men down
And the score was tied
In the bottom of the eighth
When the pitcher died

And they laid his spikes
On the pitcher?s mound
And his uni-form was torn
And his number was left on the ground

Then the night turned cold
Colder than the moon
The stars were white as bones
The stadium was old
Older than the screams
Older than the teams
There were three men down
And the season lost
And the tarpaulin was rolled
Upon the winter frost