One of the great things about writing with my last blog is that I was exposed to people much, much more creative than yours truly. (Don’t worry, you’ll find out about my lack of creativity very soon). My guy “smudgers” created this gem of a poem and hell, it deserves recognition.

“Twas the night before the big game, when all through the dome,
The Queens were all stirring, glad that this one was at home.

The mullet was combed with precision and care,
In trepidation that the Bears would soon be there.

Percy and friends were rolling J’s in their beds,
While visions of Lance Briggs terrorized their heads.

And papa Chilly in his toupee, with his lucky coin,
Had just started dreaming of massaging Favre’s groin.

When out on the lawn, there arose such a clatter,
So Brad zipped up to find out what’s the matter.

Away to the window, he flew like a flash,
While Harvin and others threw away their stash.

When, what to their bloodshot eyes should appear,
A sight that induced all their worst fear.

Hester stepped out, so lively and quick,
Their stomachs grew uneasy, they began to feel sick.

And off the bus running, Lovie called them by name,
“Now, Knox! now Forte! now Cutler and Olsen!
On, Harris! on Brown! on, Briggs and on Tillman!

So on to the field, the giant men flew,
With a grudge on the shoulders, and nothing to lose.

And then, in the distance, they all heard Chilly say,
“Please Brett, please. Come and save the day!”

He put down the phone, and got up from where he laid.
Grabbed his walking cane, and put in his hearing aid.

If they lost this one, he knew he’d be the blame,
so he dressed in his wranglers and prepped for the game.

An arsenal of weapons he had at his back,
Much better than he’d ever had with the Pack.

His eyes — how they wrinkled! His back how it ached!
The many retirements that he perfectly faked!

He knew the Bears defense, from the many games before,
the ones where he threw interception galore.

As he grabbed the Ben-Gay off the top shelf,
He imagined a victory, in spite of himself.

A blink of his eye put a thought in his head,
Urlacher’s out, one thing less to dread.

A sigh of relief, as he went back to work,
But the tape of Afalava and Bowman gave him a jerk.

O-gun and Brown in his face every play,
No one could save him, not Rice or All Day!

The game played out, just as he thought,
The Bears were victorious… and screw the rhyming – Favre is OLD!”

In case you don’t understand the “massaging Favre’s groin” reference, check out the link of Brad Childress talking about Favre’s groin. First he dresses in drag, and now this – I have questions for the man.

But in all seriousness, if the Bears were as good as this poem, we’d have a shot at winning. If we lose today’s game by less than 30, I’m considering it a victory. Props to “smudgers” on his work.

(picture courtesy of Brave New Workshop)

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