When I'm sick, this happens
Think I have either the flu or a cold, because last night I was feverish and achey. So I wrote this... And I'm not even a fan of football.
The Ravens
Once upon a playoff dreary, while I pondered weak and weary
Over many a quaint and curious playbook of forgotten Lore
Whiled I watched, game half over, suddenly there came turnover
As the ball gently tumbled, tumbled to the arena floor.
"Tis some accident", I muttered, fumbled to a pittsburgh score.
"Only this, and nothing more."
Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December
And each seperate team member wrought the victories galore
Eagerly I wished the playoff; Hoping for the final pay off
From my chair my hopes did take off, take off wishing more
From the division champion whom the my hopes did implore
Hoping wins forevermore
And the meshy sad flurry rustling of each purple jersey
Thrilled me--Filed me with fantastic terrors never felt before
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
"Tis some accidental fumble, that allowed them to score,
Some late penalty that allowed them to have ten and four.
This it is and nothing more.
Presently my soul grew stronger, hestitating then no longer,
"Heap", I said, "Or Flacco truly your forgiveness I implore.
But the fact is I was watching, So sure of your team winning
And so strongly you were playing, running up the football score
That scarce was sure I saw the fumble on arena floor.
Only this and nothing more.
Deep into the TV peering, long I sat there, wondering, fearing
Doubting, dreaming dreams no fan had ever dared to dream before
Hoping that the team unbroken, that they would give some token
And the only phrase that would be spoken was the cheering phrase
"They score!" This I wished for, wishing the speakers would say the phrase
"They score!" Merely this, and nothing more.
Back to the TV turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I saw a dropping, Flacco back, Heap was hopping
"Surely," said I, "Surely, now that they are driving
Let me see, then, a completion, With Heap a-diving
Running, striving, striving for a score.
Then I saw, with a shudder, that the ball did flirt and flutter
In there stepped a stately steeler, hands a grasping getting nearer
Not the least stumble made he, not a minute stopped or stayed he,
But with look that's shady, intercepted the ball that soared.
Grabbed, grabbed the pigskin that did soar.
Steeler ball, and nothing more.
Then this pittsburgh team a stealing, my mind it was a reeling
By the Grave and stern decorum that the players wore
Though my trust in the Ravens, has certainly been shaken
shaken by turnover, turnover I wish I could ignore,
Yet I still be saving, saving hope of stopping the score.
Quoth the Ravens, "nevermore"
Much I marvelled this unseemly play that seemed extremely
unfortunate the offense little relevancy bore
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
ever yet was cursed with seeing plays never as before
The ravens with their turnovers played never as before
Allowing now a tie score.
But the Ravens, sitting poorly on that metal bench, did only
Play terribly, as if their souls in that first half outpour
Nothing further was required, playing as if all were tired.
Till I scarcely more than muttered "Other teams they played before.
On those fields they had victory, as my hopes have flown before."
Then the birds said "Nevermore."
Startled at the plays so broken, that I thought were joking
"Doubtless" said I, "the defense they'll put more than token
effort in stopping steelers, these unseemly dealers,
Stop the field goal keep those cheaters from a score
That the dirges of my hope that melancholy burden bore
Surely they will stop the score.
But the ravens still they tumble, that they had another fumble
Straight the kick through uprise post it did soar
Then upon the couch sinking, I took myself to linking
Fancy upon fancy thinking this ominous field goal score
This grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous field goal score.
Steelers up by three more.
Thus I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the screen, whose fiery eye now burned into my bosom's core.
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
As the ravens they were driving, with field goal evened score
Hope there was a rising, OVertime it was beckoning, beckoning
with a tie score.
Then, methought, the air grew desner, perfumed from an unseen censor
Roethlisberger whose footballs hit their targets as never before.
"Wretch!" I cried, 'thy team has sent him, by his players he hath
Sent thee catch after catch and never do they hit the floor
Quit, O quit this drive, and forget getting another score.
Quoth the Ben "Nevermore!"
"Prophet!" said I, "Back of evil--prophet still, Ben the devil!
Whether tight end sent, or whether tossed left handed
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this Steeler Field enchanted
On this field of horror haunted, tell me truly I implore
Is there, is there no hope for my lads, tell me--tell me I implore!"
Quoth the Ben "Nevermore."
"Prophet!" said I, "Back of evil--prophet still, Ben the devil!
By the heaven that bends above us--by that God we both adore--
Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if, within the altered cadence,
That your team now lining up on the goal line to push afore
That the Ravens will finally put a stopping to your score!"
Quoth the Ravens, "Nevermore!"
Be that our of parting, fiendish bird!" I shrieked upstarting
"Get thee back into the city, the Baltimore night's shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that game that has a-broken
my heart that has not spoken, spoken of such playing poor
Take thy beak from out of my heart, that team, that team I did adore."
Quoth the Ravens, "Nevermore."
And the Ravens, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the Steelers field, sitting down upon the floor
And my eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming
Dreaming the game I watched had truly ended the half before
But my soul it knew the truth, The truth of that final Score
Thirty-one, Twenty-four
The Ravens
Once upon a playoff dreary, while I pondered weak and weary
Over many a quaint and curious playbook of forgotten Lore
Whiled I watched, game half over, suddenly there came turnover
As the ball gently tumbled, tumbled to the arena floor.
"Tis some accident", I muttered, fumbled to a pittsburgh score.
"Only this, and nothing more."
Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December
And each seperate team member wrought the victories galore
Eagerly I wished the playoff; Hoping for the final pay off
From my chair my hopes did take off, take off wishing more
From the division champion whom the my hopes did implore
Hoping wins forevermore
And the meshy sad flurry rustling of each purple jersey
Thrilled me--Filed me with fantastic terrors never felt before
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
"Tis some accidental fumble, that allowed them to score,
Some late penalty that allowed them to have ten and four.
This it is and nothing more.
Presently my soul grew stronger, hestitating then no longer,
"Heap", I said, "Or Flacco truly your forgiveness I implore.
But the fact is I was watching, So sure of your team winning
And so strongly you were playing, running up the football score
That scarce was sure I saw the fumble on arena floor.
Only this and nothing more.
Deep into the TV peering, long I sat there, wondering, fearing
Doubting, dreaming dreams no fan had ever dared to dream before
Hoping that the team unbroken, that they would give some token
And the only phrase that would be spoken was the cheering phrase
"They score!" This I wished for, wishing the speakers would say the phrase
"They score!" Merely this, and nothing more.
Back to the TV turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I saw a dropping, Flacco back, Heap was hopping
"Surely," said I, "Surely, now that they are driving
Let me see, then, a completion, With Heap a-diving
Running, striving, striving for a score.
Then I saw, with a shudder, that the ball did flirt and flutter
In there stepped a stately steeler, hands a grasping getting nearer
Not the least stumble made he, not a minute stopped or stayed he,
But with look that's shady, intercepted the ball that soared.
Grabbed, grabbed the pigskin that did soar.
Steeler ball, and nothing more.
Then this pittsburgh team a stealing, my mind it was a reeling
By the Grave and stern decorum that the players wore
Though my trust in the Ravens, has certainly been shaken
shaken by turnover, turnover I wish I could ignore,
Yet I still be saving, saving hope of stopping the score.
Quoth the Ravens, "nevermore"
Much I marvelled this unseemly play that seemed extremely
unfortunate the offense little relevancy bore
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
ever yet was cursed with seeing plays never as before
The ravens with their turnovers played never as before
Allowing now a tie score.
But the Ravens, sitting poorly on that metal bench, did only
Play terribly, as if their souls in that first half outpour
Nothing further was required, playing as if all were tired.
Till I scarcely more than muttered "Other teams they played before.
On those fields they had victory, as my hopes have flown before."
Then the birds said "Nevermore."
Startled at the plays so broken, that I thought were joking
"Doubtless" said I, "the defense they'll put more than token
effort in stopping steelers, these unseemly dealers,
Stop the field goal keep those cheaters from a score
That the dirges of my hope that melancholy burden bore
Surely they will stop the score.
But the ravens still they tumble, that they had another fumble
Straight the kick through uprise post it did soar
Then upon the couch sinking, I took myself to linking
Fancy upon fancy thinking this ominous field goal score
This grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous field goal score.
Steelers up by three more.
Thus I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the screen, whose fiery eye now burned into my bosom's core.
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
As the ravens they were driving, with field goal evened score
Hope there was a rising, OVertime it was beckoning, beckoning
with a tie score.
Then, methought, the air grew desner, perfumed from an unseen censor
Roethlisberger whose footballs hit their targets as never before.
"Wretch!" I cried, 'thy team has sent him, by his players he hath
Sent thee catch after catch and never do they hit the floor
Quit, O quit this drive, and forget getting another score.
Quoth the Ben "Nevermore!"
"Prophet!" said I, "Back of evil--prophet still, Ben the devil!
Whether tight end sent, or whether tossed left handed
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this Steeler Field enchanted
On this field of horror haunted, tell me truly I implore
Is there, is there no hope for my lads, tell me--tell me I implore!"
Quoth the Ben "Nevermore."
"Prophet!" said I, "Back of evil--prophet still, Ben the devil!
By the heaven that bends above us--by that God we both adore--
Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if, within the altered cadence,
That your team now lining up on the goal line to push afore
That the Ravens will finally put a stopping to your score!"
Quoth the Ravens, "Nevermore!"
Be that our of parting, fiendish bird!" I shrieked upstarting
"Get thee back into the city, the Baltimore night's shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that game that has a-broken
my heart that has not spoken, spoken of such playing poor
Take thy beak from out of my heart, that team, that team I did adore."
Quoth the Ravens, "Nevermore."
And the Ravens, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the Steelers field, sitting down upon the floor
And my eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming
Dreaming the game I watched had truly ended the half before
But my soul it knew the truth, The truth of that final Score
Thirty-one, Twenty-four