Twas the night before Bleergmas, when all through the stadium
Not a creature was stirring, not even a black cat*
The headsets were hung by the goal posts with care,
In hopes that St. Bleergh soon would be there;

The players were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of touchdowns danced in their heads;
And coach in a visor, and I in my stetson,
Had just settled down for a quick little film session,

When out on the turf there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bench to see what was the matter.
Away to the sideline I flew like a bat,
Tore off the headset and threw off the hat.

The light on the breast of the new turf
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below-f,
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a replay screen, and eight tiny flags,

With a crazy old driver, so lively and slick,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Bleergh-k.
More rapid than halftime his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;

“Now, HOLDING! now, OFFISIDE! now, OPI and TRIPPING!
On, TAUNTING! on CHOP BLOCK! on, FALSE START and CLIPPING!
To the top of the pilon! to the top of the ball!
Now call them! call them! call them all!”

As corner back that before the receivers fly,
When the ball is hear, jump to the sky,
So up to the goal posts the coursers they flew,
With the a bag full of flags, and St. Bleergh too.

And then, I heard through the loud speakers
That without more calls, Bleergh will get weaker.
As I drew in my breath, and got spun around,
Down the field St. Bleergh came with a bound.

He was dressed all in flags, from his head to his taint,
And his clothes were all covered with blood and paint;
A binder of rule changes tucked under his arm,
And he looked like a security guard about to raise the alarm

His eyes — how glazed! his dimples now muddy!
His cheeks were all black, his nose all bloody!
His droll little mouth was drawn up in a scowl,
And the beard on his chin smelled quite foul;

The stump of a roach he held tight in his tooth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath;
He had a broad face and a little six pack,
That shook, when he laughed like Suggs after a sack.

He was grumpy and mean, an angry old elf,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;
A wink of his eye and a nod to the umpire,
Soon gave me to know that I would soon be fired;

He made not a sound, but went straight to his work,
charging all the headsets; then turned with a jerk,
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And dropping a snot-rocket, up the sky he rose;

He sprang to the replay screen, to each flag gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like a missile.
But I heard him exclaim, as he drove out of sight,
HAPPY BLEERGHMAS TO ALL, AND TO ALL A GOOD-NIGHT!

*like Cutler, who don’t care, I don’t care that they don’t rhyme here or any place following.

****apologises to Clement Clarke Moore for what I’ve done to your poem.