To suck or not to suck– that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suck with
The slings and arrows of outrageous fans,
Or to take arms against the league and attempt not to suck.
And, by sucking. We die, and we sleep.
Suck some more – and by sucking to say we really suck
The heartache and the thousand natural boos we deserve
That sucking is heir to – ‘tis a consummation of the sucking theorem
Devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep to suck till eternity.
Nicely done... may I engage my OCD, undergraduate degree, and red pen to add to the exercise?
To suck, or not to suck--that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suck with
The slings and arrows of outrageous fandom
Or make QBs' arms throw to a bubble screen
As opposed to the split end, then, To fail, to suck--
No more--and by sucking to say we end up
in second place, with the media circus shlock
The JEST is heir to. 'Tis the consummation
Of New York's SB wish. To fail, to suck--
To suck--perchance to scheme: ay, there's the Tub
of Lard that sucks to death. What schemes may come
When Revis shuffles off this holdout, spoiled,
Must give us pause. There's the respect
That makes each team play sixteen football games.
For any sunday's regulation time,
Can pan out wrong, the proud teams can truly
Let suckitude and despised luck, a late delay
Of game, the commish's office, and the turns
That loose balls taking funny bounces take,
Allow the JESTs an ill-earned chance to make
Revis cover Boldin. Who would football play,
To grunt and sweat under two-a-days,
But that the chance of playing sudden death,
That undiscovered last game, from whose bourn
No active Jet's returned--the Super Bowl--
And makes them rather bear those ills they have
Than admit they suck, as others clearly know?
Thus off-season does make Cowhers of us all,
But thus the Greenish hue of self-promotion
Will be sicklied o'er with a filthy Sanchez brown,
And New York Posts of great b1tch-and-moaning
Will in this regard their comments turn awry
And lose the games in action. -- Soft you now,
The pouting Lady Tom! -- Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all thy sins remembered.
