My disdain for American football knows no bounds, and I don't believe in wasting my Sundays watching testosterone-addled meatheads run up and down a field with the hopes of placing a ball. In honor of yesterday's Super Bowl game -- as well as all the attendant hoopla -- I created a poem that follows the wonderful pentameter of Edgar Allan Poe's "The Raven," and emphasizes the importance of reading books over watching a game.
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As I woke upon a Sunday, with the hope that we will one day, bring the Lombardi trophy home to Sports Authority Field, I couldn't help my wishful thinking - amidst chips and light beer drinking that with all of Manning's stinking, stinking passes once concealed "Where is our win?" I simply shuttered, "dropped passes now revealed." Only this was on our field.
But the Ravens owned December, and we fought hard as you'll remember, and each Bronco's club level member, now sits staring at empty field But Super Bowl is a holiday, push your errands for a later day, Pull out the cutlery, prepare the feast, and leave no potato unpeeled for mashed, hashed, gashed or slashed, this day is for pigskins feel And there's no sports on our field.
We watched a Ray Lewis pray intently, if the murder concealed was plenty as if commercials for new movies were enough to fill the field. Rasta white people driving Beetles, sensible like trading needles All this just in between the million dollar men running on the field. Boredom sets in, as murderous Ravens win - boredom like witnessing food congealed And there's still potatoes to be peeled.
No Budwieser in our town, regardless of your club "Black Crown" No commercials can take away the fate of which the Niner's sealed. But old people eating tacos, is more exciting than flicking Flaccos More exciting is it still, than this boring game on this giant field more exciting is it still, than Tebow bowing to god while kneeled And we allow this on our fields.
Truly the most exciting part is watching players pour out their hearts while watching peers run back and forth on this very dim lit field. A black out simply will not stop them, nor Beyonce's act of flotsam nothing holds back America's obsession with spandex lads upon the field. and whether not we know he's guilty, or if there were some shady deals We allow this on our fields.
Up, up and higher went the score, but only for that of Baltimore, and San Francisco couldn't help but sit in sadness once concealed. Excitement grew as momentum built, like a clown upon his stilts If this game was to remain exciting, this match better be evenly keeled For after half time we were struggling watching this blacked out field Perhaps we should've Tebowed...kneeled.
Later on into the night, the game looking as if it were a fight between two foes who merely want a trophy and ring for their field. One must wonder, or perhaps shudder, why we dump so much money into this. Has footballs reign of terror ended? Are we done staring at this field? Questions unfold as the layers of this commercialized onion is unpeeled. And the bacon package isn't sealed.
For commercials this was a set back year, owned by fast food and cheap beer, nothing interesting graced the screen between players running on the field. The halftime show was just an ad, for Beyonce's career is turning sad. And poor old Blue Ivy is probably watching her mom flaunted on the field While we sit slack jawed at the booty, shaking violently down on the field And now the seven layer dip has congealed.
When will this end, or, will it? What will it take for us to kill it? (I don't mean "kill it" like that liar who we watched tackling the field) Can we just read books and not be bombarded with what makes you cool? Since when does getting rings become more important than those un-mealed and why does owning the newest car mean that your happiness is sealed? All this: Sports on a field.
Then this faint voice in my head, smacked me hard as if I were dead, "Why do you subscribe to this filth, this filth running on the field? They make millions, give little back, and often find themselves in jail, leave many victims in their wake, a wake that is not often healed. And we allow this to happen on a green, finely groomed field? I bowed my head and kneeled.
Dear God, please don't shun me, just like you, I find this funny, that I am staring at a screen with shiny things running a field. It's just a sport, not spilt milk, and thus not worth crying about, and to be honest I'd rather see some justice for those with a jersey shield applauding runners, dumb as oxen, living a life that has no yield Nine dollar beers on carts, wheeled.
There is too much money in the sport, but who am I to just retort I am just a consumer who subscribes to this sport played on a field. I am just a demographic, just a market for the fantastic, the fantastic rich folks who are paying millions for this field. They are the ones whose onions need to be readily un-peeled. So I pray - an act that's kneeled.
I do not care for watching actors, who do not so much as even factor, their shameful acts either performed on and off the green groomed field. This sport is such a waste, performed for those with extremely poor taste For it is not art, nor beauty, nor enriching watching them run around a field. And no halftime show is even worth the time we waste watching this field. I draw back, a smile wields.
I flip the television off, open a book, and clear a cough, I let the words pour into my brain for which has nearly congealed. I am done watching this crap, and nothing you say will bring me back. I am done wasting my life watching millionaires play on a field. I am done wasting my life, my brain has settled in to be healed. I am done with this field.
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