From the day my old man hazed the young cadet
to now, as I pull on my socks,
how many universes have been born?
That eager Ensign, still too wet
behind the ears, became the king of jocks,
an astronaut amid the alien corn.
Each waking moment is a walk in space.
Pull up your socks and join the human race.
My old man, blown by Iwo Jima guns
to meet my mother at a dance,
survived that marriage and the war, but lost
the eldest of his troubled sons
whose body fell forever in a trance.
There is no calculation of the cost.
Each waking moment is a walk in space.
Pull up your socks and join the human race.
We dream a dream that lets the world go round.
At morning I get dressed for work
and wonder if my old man felt this way,
stepping through years without a sound.
How many men will ever leave a mark
that could last longer than a lunar day?
Each waking moment is a walk in space.
Pull up your socks and join the human race.
