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Array
(
[sid] => 170662
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => 'Twas The Night Before Football
[time] => 2012-02-06 05:30:42
[hometext] => I began with the working title
[bodytext] => 'Twas The Night Before Touchdown A Pigskin Pork-Rind! By Caleb Boone 'Twas the night before kickoff, and through the whole town, No one practiced Rachmaninoff: everyone acted like clowns. Cupcakes, Jello and mincemeat pie; Pizza, ice cream, any thing you can fry. Decorated like footballs on every store shelf, Baked by Kroger and Callender: not Santa's elf. The fans lay asleep on their TV couches, With visions of winning: not quitters, not grouches. Playoff jerseys were hung by the chimney with care, In hopes that Football Claus soon would be there. John Madden in his kerchief; Dick Butkus in his cap, Had just settled down for a chili-bowl nap. When out in the rumpus-room there arose such a clatter, They sprang from their couch-potatoes to see what was the matter. They ran to the door and knew who it was: A red-and-white halfback named Football Claus! He came down the chimney to bring them good news, Apple cider, plum pudding, roast carrots and stews. He had flown with his reindeer in the star-filled sky, They told him they wished for a score very high. He looked like a peddler opening his pack, He reached in and pulled out two quarter-backs! One each for the favorite and the underdog, From the top of the shelf: not under a log. He said: "Back a winner! Not a horse named Nellie!" And his stomach jiggled like a bowl-full of jelly. A Meerschaum pipe he held tight in his teeth, While he told them game secrets beyond their belief. He spoke of double-overtime, conversions and kicks, Last-minute replacements, and tight-end tricks. They were surely astounded by his revelations, They dreamt of championship fame among nations. The moon on the crest of the new-fallen snow, Looked like a round pie-crust or dinner-roll dough. After all that he told them about the Big Game, They still could not tell who would win and gain fame. So they asked him: "Dear Santa, please tell us who'll win!" But he spoke not a word, only stroking his chin. He called to his reindeer to pull his sleigh home, To the North Pole, not to the Astro-Dome. Faster than eagles his coursers they came, And he whistled and shouted and called them by name. "On, Deion! On, Tom! On, Vince, Mark and Sergio! On, Eli! On, Victor! On, Hakeem and Mario!" "To the top of the stadium, to the top of the wall! Now touchdown! Now pass and dash away all!" And I heard him exclaim as he rode out of sight: "Put on your cleats: you're in for a fight!" Sunday, February 5, 2012 Hays, Kansas [comments] => 2 [counter] => 159 [topic] => 7 [informant] => CalebBoone [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 0 [ratings] => 0 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => HumorPoetry )
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