What can trump a football Sunday? Ready for some football Monday?
That's our game in all its glory, steeped in gladiator lore.
Ghost of Red Grange gallops slashing, James Brown into safeties smashing.
19 for the touchdown passing. Ray attacks on third and four.
Legendary Vince Lombardi led The Pack in days of yore.
Raymond Berry for the score!
No sport suits its season better, jersey, jacket over sweater.
Boorish fans rant rash expletives o'er a ref's prepost'rous call.
Fullback blocks, the hits are graphic, QB sticks the ball in traffic.
Smell of beer is gently wafting, wafting 'round the frigid bowl.
"Beer Man, gimme two!!", I yell. Their kicker shanks the tying goal.
I stay sober... on the whole.
So at last it's football season, like we need another a reason
To spend hours yelling, dozing, sometimes cursing on the couch
Often times our sets haranguing, 'neath a team flag window hanging.
As the D-backs swarming, ganging, banging into Manning. Ouch!
"Bad play calling!", we may mutter. Slamming into Brady. Ouch!
You can feel it on the couch.
In a blighted urban section, grills are tended with affection.
Block on block of tailgate parties, burgers, brats, and kegs of beer.
Children bloated to their gills, throw errant footballs into grills.
Yelling, laughing, eating, drinking, drinking ere they don their gear.
Stow away that pasta salad, crab dip, pickles, football's near!
"It's our year, so grab your gear!"
What could make a father prouder? Stalk the sidelines, holler louder.
Than the son who's now a player, catching passes from the slot.
Even though his son's no starter, sure he'll be the next Chris Carter.
Girlfriend cheering, mother cringing, cringing as he takes a shot.
Baby boy his mother cuddled, cringing as he takes a shot.
Football sometimes hurts a lot.
Av'rage Joes can find expression with a fantasy obsession.
Drafting, trading, crafting, perfect football teams in cyberspace.
In the office, smack talk making, jabs at last weeks' losers taking.
Sunday's here and soon their aching, waking ready for the race.
Lovingly their rosters making, every player in his place.
This week they're not losing face.
Sports are healthy for a marriage, often marriage shrinks disparage
Football's savage brand of play, for causing spousal turbulence.
But hanging with the kids and wife, can make us lead a closer life.
Common int'rests suppress strife, closeness is the best defense
Against such problems as distraction, boredom, quarrels, violence.
Sometimes doctors can be dense.
As for me, I'm living, dying with the Ravens losing, crying.
She and I await each season, for the game we both adore.
Racing home at churches' ending. Dinner and the kickoff blending.
First blood in the game portending a glorious win in store.
Pummeling the hated Steelers, wanting that and nothing more.
Quoth the Ravens, "Nothing more..."
That's our game in all its glory, steeped in gladiator lore.
Ghost of Red Grange gallops slashing, James Brown into safeties smashing.
19 for the touchdown passing. Ray attacks on third and four.
Legendary Vince Lombardi led The Pack in days of yore.
Raymond Berry for the score!
No sport suits its season better, jersey, jacket over sweater.
Boorish fans rant rash expletives o'er a ref's prepost'rous call.
Fullback blocks, the hits are graphic, QB sticks the ball in traffic.
Smell of beer is gently wafting, wafting 'round the frigid bowl.
"Beer Man, gimme two!!", I yell. Their kicker shanks the tying goal.
I stay sober... on the whole.
So at last it's football season, like we need another a reason
To spend hours yelling, dozing, sometimes cursing on the couch
Often times our sets haranguing, 'neath a team flag window hanging.
As the D-backs swarming, ganging, banging into Manning. Ouch!
"Bad play calling!", we may mutter. Slamming into Brady. Ouch!
You can feel it on the couch.
In a blighted urban section, grills are tended with affection.
Block on block of tailgate parties, burgers, brats, and kegs of beer.
Children bloated to their gills, throw errant footballs into grills.
Yelling, laughing, eating, drinking, drinking ere they don their gear.
Stow away that pasta salad, crab dip, pickles, football's near!
"It's our year, so grab your gear!"
What could make a father prouder? Stalk the sidelines, holler louder.
Than the son who's now a player, catching passes from the slot.
Even though his son's no starter, sure he'll be the next Chris Carter.
Girlfriend cheering, mother cringing, cringing as he takes a shot.
Baby boy his mother cuddled, cringing as he takes a shot.
Football sometimes hurts a lot.
Av'rage Joes can find expression with a fantasy obsession.
Drafting, trading, crafting, perfect football teams in cyberspace.
In the office, smack talk making, jabs at last weeks' losers taking.
Sunday's here and soon their aching, waking ready for the race.
Lovingly their rosters making, every player in his place.
This week they're not losing face.
Sports are healthy for a marriage, often marriage shrinks disparage
Football's savage brand of play, for causing spousal turbulence.
But hanging with the kids and wife, can make us lead a closer life.
Common int'rests suppress strife, closeness is the best defense
Against such problems as distraction, boredom, quarrels, violence.
Sometimes doctors can be dense.
As for me, I'm living, dying with the Ravens losing, crying.
She and I await each season, for the game we both adore.
Racing home at churches' ending. Dinner and the kickoff blending.
First blood in the game portending a glorious win in store.
Pummeling the hated Steelers, wanting that and nothing more.
Quoth the Ravens, "Nothing more..."
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