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Published September 03, 2010 More Info »
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Published September 03, 2010

‘Twas the night before kickoff & all through the city,
the excitement reigned, though our opponent was shitty.
The trophies we set in the stadium w/ care,
In hopes that a BCS title would soon reside there.
  

The players were nestled in their king-sized beds,
while thoughts of concussing the Hilltoppers danced in their heads.
With Bo in his crewneck & and some liquor in his glass.
The coach &his bro had just decided on how to save Watson’s ass.
  
When out on “O” street there arose such a clatter,
That Bo leapt to his feet to see what was the matter.
Away to the window of his pent house suite,
Bo began looking round to see whose ass to beat.
  
The neon sign of Knickerbockers cast such a glow,
it illuminated the street corner of all below Bo.
When what to his significant shock did arrive?
But a stretch limosine that pulled into the drive.
  
With a little old driver with a hat made of corn.
He knew in an instant that it must be Osborne.
More rapid than blitzers, his players came next.
When he called out the names each man busted a flex.
 
“Now Burkhead, now Helu, now Kinnie and Paul
On any QB that can get them the damn ball.
To the top of the polls, ’til we win every game
So I can say ‘Suck it’, ‘Suck it’, ‘suck on that, Notre Dame!”
 
As QB’s before Huskers, he then ducked out of sight.
And his limo peeled out loudly, burned rubber drifting through night.
Then into the garage, the limo it flew.
With the whip full of Huskers and T.O. went too.
 
Then while he was tinkling, Bo heard outside his door
Some prancing and jawing like never before.
As he kicked open the door, and stuck his head all around
In from the hall, Osborne came with a bound.
 
He was dressed all in corn, from his head to Adidas.
Then he walked across water just to prove he’s like Jesus.
A bundle of trophies he had flung on his back
And I’m talking real trophies, not those from the WAC.
 
The smile on his face curved up to a grin,
And he sat down with Bo and poured them each out some gin.
The stump of a stogey he held tight in his mouth
Was it chiba?  Or a Cuban?  It was Competition he smoked, of that there’s no doubt.
 
He turned his broad face towards Bo and said “Sit.”
Bo sat with a thud and then whispered, “Shit. . .”
But Osborne wasn’t angry, didn’t scold or even sass.
I mean, let’s not forget he once forgave Lawrence Phillips’ ass.
 
With a wink of his eye and a shake of his hand
T.O. passed to Pelini the right of command.
And then without word he went window-side to view the whole town
Flipped off the haters, and shouted “Up yours, Mack Brown!”
 
He sheathed middle fingers and turned for the door.
He chest bumped Pelini and what was said?  Well, no more.
He leapt down the stairs really fast, he’s 73 after all,
and flagged down his whip, and drove off into the fall.
 
And away Osborne blasted, like a billionaire’s jet
But had one thing to say, he hadn’t finished just yet.
Bo heard him exclaim as he drove off and up,
“Happy football to all, now let’s F these fools up!”
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