Twas the night before Our Playoff Run, when all through LP Field
Not a animal was stirring, not even a kitty.
The pads were hung by the locker with care,
In hopes that Kerry Collins soon would be there.
The rookies were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of touchdowns danced in their heads.
And Bud in her ‘kerchief, and Fisher with his stache',
Had just settled our brains for a long offseason spat
When out on the field there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the sideline to see what was the matter.
Away to the tunnel I flew like a flash,
Tore open the door and threw up my shoulder pads
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen VY show
Gave the lustre of mid-day headlines below.
When, what to my wondering ears should I hear,
But a radio show, saying the end of the season is near
With a little old owner, so senial and sick
I knew in a moment it must be Bud Adams
More rapid than middle fingers his VY comments they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called Jim Wyatt by name!
"Now Fisher! now, Vince! now, Dinger and Johnson!
On, Scaife! On, Hall! on, on Donnie Nickey and Babin!
To the top of the Division! to the top of the South!
Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!"
Fisher sprang to his team, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like Johnson the shizzle.
But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere we drive the Jags out of sight
"Merry Sunday to all, and to all a good-night!"
