[x]

Well, it was Gatlinburg in mid-July
And I just hit town and my throat was dry,
I thought I'd stop and have myself a brew.
At an old saloon on a street of mud,
There at a table, dealing stud,
Sat the dirty, mangy dog that named me "Gaylord".

Well, I knew that snake was my own sweet dad
From a worn-out picture that my mother'd had,
And I knew that scar on his cheek and his evil eye.
He was big and bent and gray and old,
And I looked at him and my blood ran cold
And I said, "My name is 'Gaylord'! How do you do!
Now you're gonna die!"

[Bookshelf]

I spent many a frosty night in Candlestick witnessing The Gaylord screw with batters’ minds. Which reminds me of Twain’s aphorism: the coldest winter I ever spent was a summer in San Francisco.