Twas the night before football, and I could not sleep,
Poring over statistics, breaking down the 2-deep;
The preseason mags were all stacked by the chair,
In hopes that the kickoff soon would be there;
The gameday attire washed and ready to wear,
I've purchased the facepaint and color for my hair.
No thought about sleeping, there's too much to do;
Have to pack up the tailgate and scout Georgia Tech U.
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the couch to see what was the matter.
I ran to the garage to open the door,
And cursed that I hadn't yet painted the door.
The slow-moving garage door squeaked and it creaked,
And the street lamps provided the light 'cross the street.
When, what to my wondering eyes should offend,
But a brand new flagpole, battered rope attached to the end.
With a giant blue flag, with a giant yellow letter,
I knew in a moment the sign of a skunkbear.
The lawn gnomes and trashed cars should have tipped me much sooner,
That the rusty Winnebago owner loved a perrenial loser.
He stood 'cross the street, admiring his handiwork,
Wearing that peculiarly Michigan ignorant smirk.
His droll little mouth was yellowed and dingy,
and the stubble on his chin was crusted and mangy.
The stump of a Basic was held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke encircled his head like a wreath.
He had a broad pimply face and a little round belly,
That shook when he laughed like a bowlful of jelly.
He was chubby and plump, and his flab had sagged south,
And when I first saw him I threw up a little in my mouth.
He whistled and shouted, like a dim-witted drunk,
and I swore I smelled the stench of - um - was that skunk?
"We'll be the champs of the West and to get to that position,
We'll beat I-AA Appalachian State and Eastern Michigan.
We'll discount our losses to the Bucks and the Irish
and some other third team as due to referee bias."
As most ignorant tools with no knowledge of hist'ry,
he went on at length about Bo, getting quite blust'ry.
Also attendance and the Big Ten and other trivialities,
Never really bothering with things like facts and realities.
And I said when he finally quieted and turned to embark,
"Take down the flag, or see if my bite's like my bark;
That so-called university is an insult to football.
If you leave it on my street, then me and you are gonna brawl.
Your last full championship was Nineteen and Forty Eight,
And you can't win the Rose Bowl, beat the Irish or even Penn State.
You don't graduate players, Harbaugh admits you're a joke,
Your Division I-A status ought to be revoked."
The Michigan fan, as usual afraid of the Irish,
Sheepishly took down his flag and stormed off acting quite childish.
Never ones to lose gracefully or admit their own defeat,
He muttered about the flag somehow clashing with concrete.
I turned back to my house, giving the fight song a whistle,
Able to return to that crap being broadcast from Bristol.
And from somewhere I heard on this warm summer's night:
"Happy football to all, and to all a good night!"