TWAS THE NIGHT BEFORE THE JACKSONVILLE GAME

Feeling pretty festive. So I wrote this for y'all:

Twas the Night Before the Jacksonville Game

Twas the night before the Jacksonville game, when all through the Dome

Not a big ugly was blocking, especially that "left tackle" who's sadly afflicted with T-Rex Syndrome.

The helmets and jerseys were hung up with care,

In hopes that Optimus Prime can still walk on air.

BVG's mustache was conveniently-situated right below his nose,

While concerns about our secondary made him soil his clothes.

And Thomas Dimitroff with his hair products, and I with my number two uni,

Had just finished discussing how MM's play calling is certifiably looney.

When at the fifty yard line, there arose a monstrous cheer,

I ran for the mini-fridge - ya know - to grab another beer.

Away to the couch I stumbled,

Plopping down with feeble hopes, "Please Vishnu, don't let the rock be fumbled."

The red and black logo displayed on the jumbotron,

Giving the masses some hope, however feeble, that bringing home a championship won't take too long.

When what to my wondering eyes would appear,

But a defensive back named Brent, and four drooling d-linemen sans fear.

With a lead blocker named Cox,

I knew in a moment, they'd put eight in the box.

More chunky than a sumo wrestler, Burner did arrive,

And he fought, and struggled, and ate linebackers alive.

"Now Harry! Now Roddy! Now Julio and Gonzo!

On Spoon! On Lofton! On Peterson and Nicholas!

To the endzone! To the opposing quarterback!

Now bring home that W! Win I say! Win the game!"

The seconds tick down on the clock,

We'd better be ahead, or Smitty may find himself at the Waffle House, not eating - just wearing a smock.

So in victory formation we'll go,

With the playoffs in sight, and another winning season to show.

And then, in the second round of the draft, we draft our running back of the future,

Not a below-average rusher, who'll become a salary moocher.

As I picture the future, and am rosterbating away,

Down the pike comes Mr. Blank, ready to pay.

He is dressed in a three-piece suit, silk from head to his loafers,

And his tie was from some European county, picked out by his chauffeurs.

A wallet full of 100s he holds onto with care,

And he looks like Daddy Warbucks, except with slicked back hair.

His money - how it helps! His riches - how awesome!

His Home Depot franchising, his innate ability to play free agent possum!

His checkbook open for the using,

It'll keep us winning for good, and - of course - help Dave cut back on the boozing.

The tree trunks that Burner calls legs,

And the girth he maintains with healthy portions of ham 'n' eggs.

He runs a slow forty,

The only running back in the league you'd likely confuse for my Great Uncle Morty.

He's chubby and plump, a right jolly gamer,

But I don't laugh when I see him, heck I'd make him the mayor.

A lowering of his shoulder and a well-articulated grunt,

He'll get you that first down, avoiding the three-and-out punt.

All in all, a passable team we don't lack,

Filling our hearts with hope, even when Matty Ice plays like talentless hack.

Because bounce back he will,

Passing for four touchdowns, and giving us a cardiac-arresting thrill.

He'll lead us into the future! No doubt about it!

And deep into the playoffs we must go, or a brick Caleb will doubtless ... nevermind.

But at the end of the day, I still love the fight,

"Happy Christmahannukwanzika to all, and to all a good night!"