(Because the relocation saga is equal parts misery & pain, plus the fact that Dean Spanos looks like Father Dagon, it seems only natural to combine the emptiness of Lovecraft’s poetry with the soullessness of NFL ownership.)

Despair

by H.P. Lovecraft and Roger Goodell

O’er the frozen tundra thawing,

Thro’ the concrete stadia blowing,

The devil’s light was showing,

Greedy forms with thinning hair;

In their barren mansions counting,

The money they are bleeding,

From cities plann’d on leaving,

Were damn’d demons of despair.

I think I half recall,

A better time one fall,

When my fav’rite team would ball,

And said they’d never leave;

Upon this season’s end,

My allegiance they did rend,

In a quest that they would send,

My heart, and town, to grieve.

But the dollar signs were glowing,

And the owners wish’d t’going,

With the Angel City showing,

The dream that never dies;

One by one they asked,

Their intentions were unmasked,

The Commissioner was tasked,

In helping with their lies.

They claimed their towns were shit,

On their fanbase they did spit,

Owners wanting leave to quit,

The places they’d call’d home;

They each had different reasons,

For leaving after seasons,

Of supposed wins and pleasin’s,

One wanted no more dome.

A fanbase, lone and sobbing,

A scuppered Black Hole bobbing,

With loathsome owners robbing,

The cities of their gem;

Their arguments are grating,

L.A., they say, is waiting,

The fans are left to stating,

“Pay millions?” or “Fuck them!”