And we complain every time they try to raise our taxes to pay our school teachers a little more. Don’t you think we should reassess our priorities?
Boys Will Be Boys
This Football Thing's a Sport for Brutes,
Rough Gladiators; Lycra Suits,
Tough Helmets, Butt Pads, matching Boots.
Wild, Tailgate Fans, in Parking Lots,
Char-blacken Steaks; grill Texas Hots,
Then swill them down, with Beer and Shots!
Each Kickoff stirs a roaring Crowd,
Fast Halfbacks run, past Grandstands proud,
Though Marching Bands are so damn loud.
On Astroturf's green Fields or Grass,
They’ll fake the Rush, then forward Pass,
To crush someone, they’d bust their Ass.
Oh broken Plays, Game Plans defy,
Since Penalties would pile up high;
While stressed-out Coaches wince and cry.
Most TV Ads are really dumb,
They push them at you till you’re numb,
$Three Mill per Minute’s quite the Sum.
Above, those Blimps, fly overhead,
Wry Nose Guards blitz; Wimps' Jerseys shred;
Sly Vegas chose, to close the Spread.
Bad Quarterbacks, don't know the Play;
They pray “Hail Mary’s” save their Day,
And blow the other Teams away.
Sore Blisters burst or Ankles wrenched,
Are bound to get weak Sisters benched;
With Gatorade, your Thirst is quenched!
John Madden raves, walks, starts to fuss,
His Chalkboard Talks, Charts obvious;
He balks at Planes but braves the Bus.
Foot Soldiers boot, Placekick and Punt,
Cheerleaders root, stage Trick or Stunt;
As Players age, it's Moan and Grunt.
Grown Men of Violence and such,
Have Value Systems out of Touch,
It makes no Sense; they’re paid too much.
They'd battle for a "Ring", Champagne,
Risk Life and Limb, enduring Pain;
A hyped-up Circus, just insane.
We've watched more Athletes lose Control,
Do anything to score a Goal,
God help us; Super, Duper Bowl!
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Howard B. Eskin 2000