- Joined
- Mar 19, 2006
- Messages
- 34,890
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Okay, so... bye week, lots of time to do it, and I was watching Henry V. PS, in the final couplet there's an irresistible homage. RIP from all again. You're remembered.
Once more unto first seed, dear fans, once more;
Or close the line up with New England’s dead.
For see, recovered now, there runs a Rham
As thundering and strong as Hender’s son,
that lightning-stroke dealt from the sword of War,
who imitates the lamb, and asks to score
And when the foghorn blast of third and long
Calls home eleven stalwart faithful men,
Shout down with violent voice the musket fire
Its rending crack by fans like silence made
Stiffen the ****tails, summon servers o’er
Disguise cold beer with hot-flavor’d Wings
Of Buffalo, the only good that comes
Therefrom; Go then, let fly a fearsome stream;
Fire the ass cannon; let the brown o'erwhelm it
As fearfully as doth a Rolling Rock
O'erhang, with Cutty, the confounded face
Of he who holds the table, shunning motion
“Now set the edge and check receivers wide,
Hold hard the line of scrimmage, do your job
To your full might!” On, fans of New F***in’ England,
Whose father’s blood is red and blue and white!
Fathers that, from Maine to Alexandria,
Have ev’ry season, morn till even, fought
Then sobered up for lack of argument:
Dishonour not your mothers, as if that
Were possible. Show that your fathers did
Beget you; strap it up or down or on
And raise your sons as fans. And you, good drunkard,
Whose heart is in New England, show us here
The mettle of your fandom; let us swear
That you are worth your jersey; which I doubt not;
For none among you does not yearn to shout,
“And that’s another Patiots… FIRST DOWN!”
Will Campbell for his liege a pocket make,
Maye Drake resist the pick? The game is on;
Follow the action, the out, the screen, the bomb,
Cry 'for Harry Boy, New England, and Saint Tom!'
Once more unto first seed, dear fans, once more;
Or close the line up with New England’s dead.
For see, recovered now, there runs a Rham
As thundering and strong as Hender’s son,
that lightning-stroke dealt from the sword of War,
who imitates the lamb, and asks to score
And when the foghorn blast of third and long
Calls home eleven stalwart faithful men,
Shout down with violent voice the musket fire
Its rending crack by fans like silence made
Stiffen the ****tails, summon servers o’er
Disguise cold beer with hot-flavor’d Wings
Of Buffalo, the only good that comes
Therefrom; Go then, let fly a fearsome stream;
Fire the ass cannon; let the brown o'erwhelm it
As fearfully as doth a Rolling Rock
O'erhang, with Cutty, the confounded face
Of he who holds the table, shunning motion
“Now set the edge and check receivers wide,
Hold hard the line of scrimmage, do your job
To your full might!” On, fans of New F***in’ England,
Whose father’s blood is red and blue and white!
Fathers that, from Maine to Alexandria,
Have ev’ry season, morn till even, fought
Then sobered up for lack of argument:
Dishonour not your mothers, as if that
Were possible. Show that your fathers did
Beget you; strap it up or down or on
And raise your sons as fans. And you, good drunkard,
Whose heart is in New England, show us here
The mettle of your fandom; let us swear
That you are worth your jersey; which I doubt not;
For none among you does not yearn to shout,
“And that’s another Patiots… FIRST DOWN!”
Will Campbell for his liege a pocket make,
Maye Drake resist the pick? The game is on;
Follow the action, the out, the screen, the bomb,
Cry 'for Harry Boy, New England, and Saint Tom!'
