‘Twas the Sunday after Christmas, when all in Green Bay
Not a Lion was winning, oh what can I say;
The game plans were hung by the lockers with care,
In hopes that victory soon would be there;
The players were huddled all chill in their beds,
While visions of winning danced in their heads;
And Coach in his jacket, and I in helmet,
Had just got hyped so the losses I would forget,
When out on the field there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the room to see what was the matter.
Away to the tundra I flew like a flash,
Went to the field and listened to “The Clash.”
The sun on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of mid-day to Packers below,
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But Grant, and Rodgers, and Driver are near.
With a little shimmy, so lively and quick,
I knew, in that moment I said oh shit!
More rapid than our DB’s they came,
And they whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;
“Now, Clifton, now, Jordy! now, Jennings we’ll mix it!
These Lions don’t recognize coverage & zone blitzes!
To the middle of the field, Lambeau Leap over the wall!
Al Harris, Charles Woodson, TD’s for all!
As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with more obstacles, mount to the sky,
So up to the concourses of the field they flew
With 0-16 shirts worn on kids as young as 2.
And then, in a twinkling, I heard in the huddle
The crying of grown men, tears in puddles.
As I drew plays in my hand, and was turning around,
Down the pike the referee came to town.
He was dressed all in stripes, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all clean & snug with Reebok boots.
A Hall of Fame football he had in his hands behind his back,
And he was ready, for Canton this ball he would pack.
His eyes — how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His whistle was chrome! His yellow flag was scary!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And he wanted to be part of history, so it was time to go;
The look in his eye was not a welcome treat,
And looked at us & he could smell the defeat;
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
That shook, when he ran downfield like jelly.
He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old ref,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;
A wink of his eye and a flick of his wrist,
Soon gave me 15 yards for another illegal shift;
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And launched the flag; then turned (the big jerk),
And laying his finger besides the helmet that was bent,
And giving a nod, back to the sidelines he went;
He sprang to the sidelines and blew his whitsle,
At the end of the game, he left like a missile.
But I heard the fans exclaim, as they drove off in their trucks,
“You guys are 0-16, the Detroit Lions suck!!!”
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