‘Twas the night before football
And men everywhere
Were preparing their lineups
And floofing their chair.
Elsewhere in the house
Was a wife, not yet hiding,
But seeking out places
For comfy abiding,
Retreats where she’ll spend
The next 17 Sundays
Avoiding the shouts.
(Wait, they also play Mondays?)
The refs have made final
The script for the season
Including some muscles
To tear without reason.
Now all of us sigh
As we drift off to bed
Hoping this year the Chiefs
Will get bonked in the head.
The Daily Travesty 