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Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten Oilers lore—
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a thudding,
As of some one violently chopping, chopping at my chamber door.
“’Tis Earl Campbell,” I muttered, “running over some defender poor—
Only this and nothing more.”
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;
And each separate empty beer can wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow
From my booze surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Bum Phillips—
For the large and blunt cowpoke whom the networks name Bum—
Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
“’Tis Earl Campbell entreating entrance at my chamber door—
Perhaps Bruce Matthews entreating entrance at my chamber door;—
it must be them, and nothing more.”
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, (I don’t judge) truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was drinking, and so gently you came chopping,
And so faintly you came chopping, chopping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;—
Darkness there and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken were the whispered words, “Why couldn’t we beat the Yinzers when it counted?”
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Yinzers!”—
Merely this and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a chopping somewhat louder than before.
“Surely,” said I, “surely that is Billy White Shoes at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—
’Tis just Billy and nothing more!”
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a an enormous beast built like pro wrestlers of the non-family friendly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, did a standing broad jump to the top of my chamber door—
Perched upon a bust of Pastorini just above my chamber door—
Perched, and sat, and did 3 quick sets of 12 squats, and nothing more.
Then this crew cut beast beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient warrior wandering from the Northern shore—
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”
Quoth the beast “JJ WATT!.”
Much I marvelled this enormous beast to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with the ability to squat thrust while balanced above a chamber door—
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as “JJ WATT!.”
But the JJ, repping finger-tip push-ups on the placid bust, spoke only
That one name, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing farther then he uttered—not a muscle then he didn’t flex—
Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other guys do push-ups—
maybe tomorrow I will join them.”
Then the bird said “Like shit son! You? You ain’t got what it takes! You stay up too late, you sit on couches and read, you drink beers. No, not you.”
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is patent bullshit
Caught from some unhappy childhood spent chasing football scholarships from school to school
Followed fast and followed faster till he only knows no more than cheap slogans stolen from all those coaches—
Till the his capacity for original thought is never more.
But the JJ still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking to my twitter account, because no one was going to believe this,
Thinking what this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous man of bore
Meant in croaking “Get up off your ass and chop wood with me son! Just keep splitting, push through the pain and lose that coat pussy, it ain’t that cold!.”
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
“Wretch,” I cried, “did you just pass gas in my chamber!? For Christ’s sake open the door!”
Quoth the Raven “I eat right and eating right means a lot a of vegetables and protein and a lot of vegetables and protein means a lot of gas. It’s a small sacrifice for a healthy body bro!”
“Humblebragger!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if lineman or devil!—
Whether Goodell sent, or whether waivers tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land, (eh, beats Cleveland) enchanted—
On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—
Is there—is there a chance the Patriots will lose?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”
Quoth the JJ “Gotta respect the other team. They work hard, they hustle, they put in the effort bro!”
“Humblebragger!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if 3rd stringer or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us—by that NFL that for some godforsaken reason we both adore—
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted head coach whom the angels name Bum Phillips—
Clasp a large and blunt head coach whom the angels name Bum.”
Quoth the Raven “Don’t know who that is bro; I just keep my head down, and focused on the present to get prepared for the future. No time for the past bro!”
“Be those words our sign of parting, you fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—
“Get thee back onto the field for Oklahoma drills!
Leave no cliches as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit doing one-handed chin-ups on my door!
Take thy cliches from out my ears, and take thy chin-ups from off my door!”
Quoth the Raven “Never stop pushing bro! Gotta keep going to get better bro! A watched pot never boils bro! Stitch in time saves nine! A penny saved is a penny earned!.”
And the JJ, never shutting up, still is sitting, still is raving
On the pallid bust of Pastorini while doing finger-curls on my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
I’ll never see the Oilers—nevermore!
(with the deepest apologies to Edgar Allan Poe)
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