Yo, the Braves, you should totally go gentle into that good night,
All kinds of great things should burn and rave at close of day;
So just roll with the dying of the light.
Though Chippers at their end know dark is right,
Because their swings had forked no lightning they
are like, "Cool, I'll go gentle into that good night."
Good men, the last chop by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay (RIP Big Weav),
Rage, rage against the notion of not being hip with the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught a fair share but less than us balls in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
For serious, it's over champ, right over there's that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
And you, Bobby, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Might as well go gentle into that good night.
It was fun, but we're better, and you know that it's right.