Sometimes

When the world is caught in hysteria

The only thing for it

is an epic poem.

THE BATTLE OF MONDAY NIGHT

Sunny was the afternoon

We crowded in Seahawks Field

To witness the battle of Monday Night.

Facing a noble opponent

Emblazed with emerald and gold

Here from the shore of a far-off inland sea.

The Red Shirts struck

To ground from hand all swill

Yet our spirits rose with the snap and rumble of the drummers.

Against our young Russell

Stood against the heralded Rodgers

Strong of arm, fleet of foot, sure of vision

A complete tosser.

Prognosticators foretold our

Mighty blue-clad warriors

Suffering a terrible defeat

As mongers lobbed fish

To the strains of Kurdt Cobain.

Cleats touched pitch and

Boot touched leather

The oblong spheroid arced through the evening sky.

Rodgers brought his legion forth

Eyeing our defenders

Hunched across the line.

With the ball Rodgers strode back

Surveyed the field for his men

And crashed to ground under the Mighty Bruce!

Ales clanked and the throng bellowed delight.

Rodgers stood and rallied his men

Surely his fall was an anomaly.

No! He found

As he fought the grasp

Of Clemons.

Our battlers stood stout

Rodgers was assailed again and again

By our screaming blue horde.

Young Russell took field

And fed the Beast.

The Beast charged the line

Trampled and dislodged

Green and gold hanging off every limb.

Russell then took ball in hand

Dodged and darted

Launched a pass

To the outstretched hands of

The Golden One.

We took the lead!

And pressed the advantage.

The enemy was reduced

To Field Goals.

But Rodgers was not famed

For withering

And led his troop in a charge

Festooned with yellow hankies

Our lead surpassed.

The clock neared finish

Young Russell’s passes fell uncaptured.

Then

As the clock’s arm swung

Passed zero

And pangs of misery crept up

The hands of the Golden One

Intertwined

With Victory!

Victory!

Victory!

And that was pretty much the end of it.