At the track kitchen that morning
I was playing cards with friends,
There sat Pop Sigh, we called Dead Eye
and Fats Jimmy, who drove the Benz
The fourth man, Wheel Chair Eddie
a boy of eighteen, I'd been told
The wheel chair, was his cross to bear
on each, God had broke the mold

Fast Eddie as I called him
suffered from Cystic Fibrosis,
"Get outta my way" he would say
"don't need no **** diagnosis"
Eddie was cleaning up on us
took me for two hundred three,
He was the best, wiped out the rest
taunting us all, with his spree

The others always let him brag
in pity for his condition
That might be, but they weren't me,
I'm not given to submission!
"Eddie, you're a gimp legged freak,"
I'd said, giving his chest a tap
"Off your ****, or keep your mouth shut,"
"Hey Morgan, I won't take your crap"

He waved the money in my face
"you fish bite the same old hook"
"Man" he'd say, "you're easy prey
you make it sound like I'm a crook"
"If you'd climb outta that wheelchair
I would teach you some respect"
He'd laugh and jeer, show no fear,
"well now...what did you expect"

But Eddie had such little time
whereby, we all knew his plight,
What might I see, if I were he
I'd welcome their taunts to fight
While others made him feel sorry
for the state that he found himself in
I could see, he was just like me
though at times, I would let him win

I think that's why he favored me
he would seek me out, most the time
The reason he, played cards with me
in the hope, I would drop a dime
I never looked on him as sick
to me he was one of the ****
He knew I'd say, "Eddie, let's play,
come on, we need another man"

Tate