Song of Bode Miller
In the tree zone of Torino
In a dirty dive bar, drinking,
Sits the legend, Bode Miller.
Sits the legend, quaffing cold ones.
Should you ask me
Whats his poison?
Was it lager, light in color
Made with hops from hardy farmlands,
Made with flocculating yeast scum?
Was it ale, as dark as twilight,
Made with first-rate malted barley,
Head like morning marsh miasma?
I should answer, I should tell you,
“Should strong Bode hit the bottle,
Drink he not of Stout or Pilsener,
Drink he not a Shirley Temple
Spared the maggot in Tequila
Spared the worm submerged in squalor
Saw himself in that glass vessel
Saw his soul was con gusano
Like St. Bernard’s and rescue firkins,
Brave Bode held his bottle closely,
He did drink of caustic vodka.
Acrid stuff from earthy taties,
Hard fermented in Kamchatka.”
Perfect for audacious Bode,
Alpine skier, lover, dreamer.
Loved to ski while tanked and tipsy
On the slopes in frosty winter,
On the somber slaloms twisting.
He was climbing to the Slalom
Walking lightly o’er the snow drifts,
Soaked with spirits, stumbling slightly.
With his skis the chill of morning
made him shiver ever slightly,
Shiver slightly with nostalgia;
Saw his soul was con gusano,
Saw his nonage flash before him.
In the mountains of New Hampshire,
In October atramentous,
Born a babe on cold escarpments,
Born a babe of mighty talent,
Bode Miller, alpine skier,
Bode Miller, lover, dreamer.
Went to mighty Carrabassett
Where he grew in strength, endurance;
Learned to slice through hills like hatchets.
He had skis, Senjekawah,
Magic skis of hyper carbon;
When upon his feet he wore them,
he had speed and fleetness stunning.
He had two ski poles enchanted,
Magic poles of hyper carbon;
When he used them on the slalom,
He was agile like a back-up dancer.
On the Mountains of Cesana,
On the great white scarps descending,
Stood the legend, Bode Miller
He the legend, not quite sober
Round his neck his silver metals
From the west, the salty waters
From the cosa nostra Mormans.
With his skis, Senjekawah,
With his two ski poles enchanted.
Slid into the great hearafter,
Skied into the great unknown.
Thus departed Bode Miller
Alpine Skier, lover, dreamer.
Soaked like worms within Tequila
A spirit in a vitreous bottle.
To a life of booze and skiing,
To a life on slippery slopes,
To a really bad hangover!