A sonnet to celebrate....

When first thy notes did through the rafters soar,
A playful hymn of dairy, light, and cheer,
We knew not yet what wonders lay in store,
Nor dreamed thy glow would blaze for forty year.

Thy jam, a river winding, ever free,
Reveals new visions each and ev’ry night,
A mirror tuned to human revelry,
Whose peaks ascend toward everlasting light.

The faithful gather, drawn from near and far,
To ride thy arc as day dissolves to flame,
Each tone a spark, each chorus like a star,
Eternal yet reborn, thou art the same.

So sing, sweet Hood, thy blessing understood:
Four decades prove thou mak’st us all feel good.

And, uh... "Dog Log" is 40, too, sooo....

When dogs must squat and leave their steaming gift,
The noble nose recoils, the stomach shifts;
Yet Phish, in mirth, did raise this dung-born song,
A hymn to logs that tumble brown and long.

Four decades now this turd hath rolled on stage,
A forty-year-old joke that will not age.
Its fragrance fills the hall, a fetid cheer,
The crowd cries “Dog Log!” — poop to every ear

Let choirs sing not of love nor starry skies,
But of the pile that steams ‘neath Rover’s thighs.
What art endures? Not kings, nor gilded thrones —
But shit, immortal, sung in sacred tones.

So here’s to "Dog Log", foul yet ever dear:
The stink that binds our hearts year after year.

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