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August 30, 2013

The start of college football is pretty much the same as Christmas. So here's my OWN holiday poem.

(*Author's note: In what has become a favorite pre-football tradition of mine, I have created a new twist on an old classic.  This will be the 3rd year that I have done this.  Here's year one.  And here's year two.  Enjoy.)

Twas the night before kickoff, when all through Nebraska
Not a Husker fan was stirring, it was desolate, like Alaska.
The beers were on ice, tucked in the cooler with care,
In hopes that gameday would soon be there.

The blackshirts were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of thermo-nuclear-impact hits on Cowboys, danced in their heads.
And Bo in his crewneck that he wears like a nighty
Had just poured a night cap, but his senses were tingling like Spidey.

When out down on O-street came a whistling noise like a ref,
And Bo leapt from the bed as he shouted, “Yo, what the F?!?”
Away to the stairwell he dashed at an astonishing clip
He sprinted down flight after flight, looking for whose ass to whip.

The neon on the blacktop of the freshly paved road
Gave the luster of noon-time to objects below.
When, what to his wondering eyes should he see,
But a chromed out, stretch-limo, Hummer H3.

With a little old driver, looking more badass than J. Bourne
He knew in a moment, it must be Saint Osborne.
More rapid than tweens fingers texting on phones
Players came pouring out, each one throwing the Bones!

"Now Abdullah! Now, Bell! Now, Cotton and Cross!
On, Martinez! On, Ankrah! Let’s show these fools who is boss!
To the top of the polls, like a stripper for big spenders
Now chop ‘em up.  Chop ‘em up.  Like you’re all human blenders!”

As a Manziel family lawyer when counting his dough
He smiled a huge grin, and climbed back into the limo .
And up to the rooftop the car flew like a plane
With the wind whipping about Kenny Bell’s afro-mane.

Bo raced back to his room, the Executive Suite
And readied his phone to send out a #saintosborne Tweet.
Then he peeked his head out and looked into the hall
There appeared Saint Osborne, the God of the Fall.

He was dressed all in red from his head to his school sanctioned Adidas,
And he carried on his back, different kinds of Tequilas.
The bundle of booze he flung off his back,
And he looked like a Lohan, just opening their pack.

His eyes how they twinkled, his playbook so sublime
Bo took a shot of Patron, then chased it with lime.
Osborne’s rings were so many, he’d won so many damn games
That with all of his jewels he looked like a honkie Rick James.

He chewed on beef jerky Bevo and smoked a pipe made of bone
From the remains of his enemies, so they’d never be alone.
He reached out to Bo and gave him a soul shake,
And nodded at him with the force of a volcanic earthquake.

He was stately and tough, took no guff from buffooners
He was hard-scrabble rough, from years spent curb-stomping the Sooners.
A wink of his eye carried more weight than a Suburban
And Bo knew what it meant, he’d soon have to beat Urban.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work
Drawing up plays, passing knowledge, he was smooth not a jerk.
And pointing to the door, he left with a smirk,
Before he was spotted and discussed more than a Miley Cyrus Twerk.

He sprang into the limo and put the pedal to the floor,
The players ghost-rode the whip then jumped inside the doors.
But Bo heard him exclaim, as they vanished like a black puff of smoke,
"Merry Football to all, and suck it Brady Hoke!"

The Saint