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The Ravens
With apologies to Edgar Allen Poe
EA Poe... It's in the game!
Once upon a Sunday dreary, while I shouted drunk and beery,
Over many a quaint and curious replay of 2000 lore,
While I grant, without reduction, the value of Ray-Ray’s Obstruction,
They’re not Jet-like in their suction, but deduction tells you, that was before.
‘They’re a D,' I muttered, `Their QB can’t score -
Only defense, nothing more.'
Ah, distinctly I remember after 20-9’s December,
How January made my member shrink and shrivel to the core.
Eagerly I wished the morrow, that playoff game set in Foxboro
In the books, and causing sorrow - sorrow we just couldn’t score
And hoped the harried QB Brady whom the gods that day deplored -
Would be redeemed for evermore.
But then a sick and certain hurtin’ was put upon the purple curtain
Thrilled us - filled us with fantastic terrors never felt before;
The never-ending beating of Joe Flacco (though still it nearly left us needing)
`'Tis some visitor receding slowly to Foxboro’s floor -
Some hated visitor receding to Foxboro’s floor; -
This Flacco is, and nothing more,'
For in ’12 our rush grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
`Sir,' said they, `or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is that while two-gapping, too gently often we came rapping,
And so faintly we came tapping, tapping at an O-line’s door,
That they scarce were sure they heard us' - Vince Wilfork opened wide the door; -
‘But this is now, that was before.’
Deep into that defense peering, Flacco stood there wondering, fearing,
Belichick’s scheming schemes no quarterback had yet seen before;
But the other Ray was badly broken, and the Patriots gave no token,
And the only word there spoken in Flacco’s helmet, `pick on Sterling Moore!'
This was whispered, and Flacco echo’d back the last word, `…Moore?'
'Throw the ball at Sterling Moore!'
To the dance, we're now returning, 2010 no longer burning,
As we heard Foxboro stirring somewhat louder than before.
`Surely,' said Tom, `surely I sucked but the defense saved us;
Let me see then, who the knave is, that stands 'tween us and Number Four
Let's watch the Giants-Niners and the game-tape then explore; -
'Tis one more game, and nothing more!'
Gronk is fine, and Welk and Brady have two weeks ere the fat lady
Sings again (I was afraid she would sing to 2-10's orchestral score)
'Not the least obeiscence make we; not a football god forsaked me;
But the the lead Law Firm staked me in that game 'gainst Baltimore -
Perched upon the Ravens’ end-zone, the only Patriots touchdown score -
Cemented then by Sterling Moore.'
'When these ebony birds beguiling, took the ball back, never smiling,
But a grave and stern decorum was the countenance they wore,
`Though thy decal be confusing, thou,' I said, `art sure amusing.
Ghastly grim and ancient Ravens wandering in from Baltimore -
Tell me when thy lordly game will be like Year 2000 lore!'
Quoth the Ravens, `Nevermore.'
But the Ravens, smirking surely from the fifteen, kicked poorly
that one shank, as if their soul in that one kick they did outpour.
No further trash talk then they hollered, - not one more dirty play from Pollard
Not one more facemask or horse-collar other Ravens tried before.
On the morrow they'll be golfing, some retirements still in store,
when Ray and Reed said, `Nevermore.'
At length I’d write, like Poe’s original -- of the Bronco round divisional,
Or a rhyme or two provisional, about Gronkowski’s record scores,
Or rhapsodize about young Ninkovich, or say that Kinkos
Copies less than the stinkos on the coaching staff of Baltimore –
But the super bowl approaches; can Baltimore their dreams restore?
Quoth the Ravens, ‘Nevermore.’
With apologies to Edgar Allen Poe
EA Poe... It's in the game!
Once upon a Sunday dreary, while I shouted drunk and beery,
Over many a quaint and curious replay of 2000 lore,
While I grant, without reduction, the value of Ray-Ray’s Obstruction,
They’re not Jet-like in their suction, but deduction tells you, that was before.
‘They’re a D,' I muttered, `Their QB can’t score -
Only defense, nothing more.'
Ah, distinctly I remember after 20-9’s December,
How January made my member shrink and shrivel to the core.
Eagerly I wished the morrow, that playoff game set in Foxboro
In the books, and causing sorrow - sorrow we just couldn’t score
And hoped the harried QB Brady whom the gods that day deplored -
Would be redeemed for evermore.
But then a sick and certain hurtin’ was put upon the purple curtain
Thrilled us - filled us with fantastic terrors never felt before;
The never-ending beating of Joe Flacco (though still it nearly left us needing)
`'Tis some visitor receding slowly to Foxboro’s floor -
Some hated visitor receding to Foxboro’s floor; -
This Flacco is, and nothing more,'
For in ’12 our rush grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
`Sir,' said they, `or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is that while two-gapping, too gently often we came rapping,
And so faintly we came tapping, tapping at an O-line’s door,
That they scarce were sure they heard us' - Vince Wilfork opened wide the door; -
‘But this is now, that was before.’
Deep into that defense peering, Flacco stood there wondering, fearing,
Belichick’s scheming schemes no quarterback had yet seen before;
But the other Ray was badly broken, and the Patriots gave no token,
And the only word there spoken in Flacco’s helmet, `pick on Sterling Moore!'
This was whispered, and Flacco echo’d back the last word, `…Moore?'
'Throw the ball at Sterling Moore!'
To the dance, we're now returning, 2010 no longer burning,
As we heard Foxboro stirring somewhat louder than before.
`Surely,' said Tom, `surely I sucked but the defense saved us;
Let me see then, who the knave is, that stands 'tween us and Number Four
Let's watch the Giants-Niners and the game-tape then explore; -
'Tis one more game, and nothing more!'
Gronk is fine, and Welk and Brady have two weeks ere the fat lady
Sings again (I was afraid she would sing to 2-10's orchestral score)
'Not the least obeiscence make we; not a football god forsaked me;
But the the lead Law Firm staked me in that game 'gainst Baltimore -
Perched upon the Ravens’ end-zone, the only Patriots touchdown score -
Cemented then by Sterling Moore.'
'When these ebony birds beguiling, took the ball back, never smiling,
But a grave and stern decorum was the countenance they wore,
`Though thy decal be confusing, thou,' I said, `art sure amusing.
Ghastly grim and ancient Ravens wandering in from Baltimore -
Tell me when thy lordly game will be like Year 2000 lore!'
Quoth the Ravens, `Nevermore.'
But the Ravens, smirking surely from the fifteen, kicked poorly
that one shank, as if their soul in that one kick they did outpour.
No further trash talk then they hollered, - not one more dirty play from Pollard
Not one more facemask or horse-collar other Ravens tried before.
On the morrow they'll be golfing, some retirements still in store,
when Ray and Reed said, `Nevermore.'
At length I’d write, like Poe’s original -- of the Bronco round divisional,
Or a rhyme or two provisional, about Gronkowski’s record scores,
Or rhapsodize about young Ninkovich, or say that Kinkos
Copies less than the stinkos on the coaching staff of Baltimore –
But the super bowl approaches; can Baltimore their dreams restore?
Quoth the Ravens, ‘Nevermore.’
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