Sad-Eyed Drifter of the Lowlands

There were four players here tonight, just enough for a quad. High Plains Vest held serve with white vs Mr Steen while Zimmy, behind the black pieces, managed a draw with the Stud, complaining that he was a piece up at one point, but Damir had a passed pawn. The Twin Towers, each with black, stood tall in round two. Zimmy hit the Drifter with an exchange sac, but the Tower held. That set up the last round with Mr Vest needing only a draw and having the white pieces. Zimmy bested Steen, and, while they went over the game, I went upstairs to find out for myself what was happening. Inquiring minds just hafta know! As I was watching the action, a phone went off! Wondering which of the two players, who both have cellphones, would need to be penalized, it dawned on me that I had the House phone in my pocket, and IT HAD GONE OFF! Embarrassed, I headed outta the room at warp speed! There had been no ring outta the thing in over an hour and a half!
As they came down the stairs, it was apparent the Stud had won, and I apologized PROFUSELY. They seemed amused and told me not to worry about it. Being new at this TD thing, I was wondering what the penalty is for a TD in the case of his phone ringing? The air between Mr Studen and I had been cleared earlier, with me telling him I was human and would make mistakes, but I didn't think it would be something as egregious as having a phone go off. I do not even own a cell phone! How can I ever live this down?...
Tuesday, Woody did the goose egg shuffle, losing all three games and I decided to give him a book as a "Woody" prize, but he has not been around since, so tonight I found a book, beaten and battered, looking like it has been through the wringer, and awarded the first "Woody" prize to Mr Steen. Needless to say, he was pleasantly surprised to receive an old Dover copy of FRANK MARSHALL'S BEST GAMES. You would've thought I'd given him a brand new book! He said, "I think I'll actually read this book!" The man is to be commended for coming to the House and enduring Pain, going up against the Usual Suspects. I wish we had a House full of players just like him! Look for him to only get stronger...
So one Tower was shaken, but refused to go down. Not so for the other Tower, as the man from the High Plains was brought down to the Lowlands tonight...

Sad-Eyed Lady of the Lowlands by Bob Dylan

With your mercury mouth in the missionary times,/And your eyes like smoke and your prayers like rhymes,/And your silver cross, and your voice like chimes,/Oh, who among them do they think could bury you?/With your pockets well protected at last,/And your streetcar visions which you place on the grass,/And your flesh like silk, and your face like glass,/Who among them do they think could carry you?/Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands,/Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes,/My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums,/Should I leave them by your gate,/Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait?/With your sheets like metal and your belt like lace,/And your deck of cards missing the jack and the ace,/And your basement clothes and your hollow face,/Who among them can think he could outguess you?/With your silhouette when the sunlight dims/Into your eyes where the moonlight swims,/And your match-book songs and your gypsy hymns,/Who among them would try to impress you?/Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands,/Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes,/My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums,/Should I leave them by your gate,/Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait?/The kings of Tyrus with their convict list/Are waiting in line for their geranium kiss,/And you wouldn't know it would happen like this,/But who among them really wants just to kiss you?/With your childhood flames on your midnight rug,/And your Spanish manners and your mother's drugs/,And your cowboy mouth and your curfew plugs,/Who among them do you think could resist you?/Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands,/Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes,/My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums,/Should I leave them by your gate,/Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait?/Oh, the farmers and the businessmen, they all did decide/To show you the dead angels that they used to hide./But why did they pick you to sympathize with their side?/Oh, how could they ever mistake you?/They wished you'd accepted the blame for the farm,/But with the sea at your feet and the phony false alarm,/And with the child of a hoodlum wrapped up in your arms,/How could they ever, ever persuade you?/Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands,/Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes,/My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums,/Should I leave them by your gate,/Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait?/With your sheet-metal memory of Cannery Row,/And your magazine-husband who one day just had to go,/And your gentleness now, which you just can't help but show,/Who among them do you think would employ you?/Now you stand with your thief, you're on his parole/With your holy medallion which your fingertips fold,/And your saintlike face and your ghostlike soul,/Oh, who among them do you think could destroy you/Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands,/Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes,/My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums,/Should I leave them by your gate,/Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait?