Once upon a midday dreary, as I pondered weak and weary
Over many a legend named Lewis, made immortal in hallowed lore.
As I watched, energy sapping, suddenly I heard a tapping
As of someone gently rapping, rapping on my living room door.
“Tis the cat,” I muttered. “Tapping on my living room door. Only this and nothing more.”
Ahh distinctly I remember, it was in that bleak November
And my hope’s last dying ember, wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished it over, my team a flock of piping plovers
As Loop missed, I thought of Stover, while reeling over the now-lost Lamar.
For the rare and radiant QB whom his mama named Lamar.
Nameless here. Forever more.
And the easy sad repellence, of each shiny purple helmet
Killed me, filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before.
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
“Our third thrower will stop the bleeding,
Though my cat won’t stop its pawing, pawing at my living room door.
I’ll just open it, and the Ravens will notch another score.”
Presently my soul grew stronger, hesitating then no longer,
“Hey cat,” I called out, “I promise to stop yelling at the screen forevermore.
But the fact is, we were losing, I truly considered boozing,
Boozing to numb this pain and slow my swearing so you won’t be scared no more” — here I opened wide the door. My kitchen there. Nothing more.
Deep into suburban peace peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before.
But the silence was unbroken, and the appliances gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lamar.”
This I whispered and my son cried from his room “Lamar!”
A kitchen there, and nothing more.
Back onto my couch turning, QB3 was downfield churning,
As the drive crumbled I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
“Surely,” said I, “surely it is just a new guy, unsure and nervous,
And my heart’s tapping’s cuz I’m curious, hungry to see QB3 roar —
Let my heart be still a moment and just see our QB3 roar —
Brady started his career as New England’s QB4.”
Quickly then I watched in silence, just as Buffalo’s disciplined violence,
Led to stops and blocks and sacks, and to interceptions galore.
Not the least advancement made they, not one more good drive or great play,
Instead I felt a tragic replay, of other bad Raven games that came before.
On the grand screen perched above a picture of great Ravens that came before.
A legendary collapse and nothing more.
Then Hamilton, a beast beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By his play, echoing the electric play that Reed’s countenance onetime wore.
Still our offense, weak and craven, “Thou,” I screamed, “Are sure no Raven, fast and strong, over defenses pavin’, blessing Baltimore’s recovering shore.
Tell me, will Baltimore score more than 10 this season?”
Quoth the Ravens, “Nevermore.”
Much I marveled this team that answered like it was infected with cancer,
Though I reminded myself that little meaning, little relevancy it bore.
Gas is high and peace is low, and I’ve gotta get back to work tomorrow
And billionaires pay no tariffs while the tax man is knocking on my door —
Football is our escape, but the Bills are about to close this game’s door —
The Ravens need a touchdown: “Nevermore.”
But the Ravens, never scoring, now the game is getting boring,
Defense is exciting but they can’t get 3 picks they run back for scores.
Few more passes completed did he, then kind of injured became QB3,
Till I moaned almost gleely, “Other throwers have flown before.
On the morrow we’ll get some new blood as has lifted my hopes before.”
Quoth the Ravens, “Nevermore.”
Who will be our new football slinger, since Lamar has broke his finger,
And Snoop and QB3 Fagnano’s foot injuries are our only stock and store?
Caught from some elusive devil who since our Super Bowl seems to revel,
In injuring Ravens of every level, every year more and more and more.
Will we, will we, get to see our home team restored to the greatness of yore?
Quoth the Ravens, “Nevermore.”
The game is getting out of hand, like last week when our marching band,
Had to watch a division also-rand score and score and score and score.
Deep into my leather couch sinking, I betook myself to linking
Upset upon upset, thinking what this mighty team of yore —
What this fierce, proud, storied team of yore —
Did to warrant such endless setbacks forevermore?
Then methought my eyes grew cloudy, whetted by announcers loudly
Wondering what to say about such a game it fans now certainly abhor.
“Damn,” I cried, “My God hath lent me a fandom for a team recently
plagued oh so indecently by hurts and misses and scandals galore.
Is there — is there a chance Lamar will return by Christmas, if not before?”
Quoth the presser, “Nevermore.”
“For the fans!” said I, “you thing of evil, twisted football gods or devils,
For people who spend time and money on sports teams that we don’t play for.
The ones who live average lives, and raise their kids, and love their wives,
Or husbands, fandom doesn’t discriminate, fan clubs can always use one more.
We believed this would be a year of greatness, can’t we turn it around for sure?”
Quoth the Ravens, “Nevermore.”
“For the fans!” said I, “you thing of evil, twisted football gods or devils,
Who cheer and scream and care very strongly and pray to the God we adore.
Who take a break from constant worrying to cheer for men arbitrarily scoring,
Take a break from housechores boring to spend Sunday watching the NFL.
Will we — will we ever get to see the greatness of Baltimore’s MVP Lamar?”
Quoth the Ravens, “Nevermore.”
Drawn inside in postgame depression, I beheld a sudden procession,
In my mind of collapsed hopes since we last won the Super Bowl.
Passes dropping, high draft picks flopping, and there’s Tucker and Rice,
Whose crimes tainted the legacy of that team that won the Bowl.
“Damn you Ravens, my heart is broken, leave no black plume as a token,
take thy beak from out my heart, let me close my fandom’s door.”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”
Yet this Thursday, after threats of quitting, no doubt I will still be sitting,
On my leather u-shaped couch, cheering to see the Ravens of yore.
Maybe we will get back Flacco, and our defense is smoking like tobacco,
And as a fan I’m just a whacko, my hopes in a pool of despair on the floor.
Will my cheering ever be able to pick my hopes up from the floor?
Quoth the Ravens, “Nevermore.”
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