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(with apologies to original Ravens fan, E.A. Poe)
Once upon a Sunday clearly, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and spurious memory of playoff wins galore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my locker door,
“Tis some reporter,” I muttered, “tapping at my locker door –
Only this, and nothing more.”
Ah, distinctly I remember back to when I lost my temper,
When any single hope of victory wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow – how I wished not to remember,
From my deepest depths of sorrow—sorrow for the brutal 2009 disaster,
For the brutal and vicious smackdown I endured on that vicious score.
Nameless here for evermore.
And the brutish mean uncertain rustling of each purple Raven
Scared me – filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
“’Tis some reporter entreating entrance at my chamber door-
Some early reporter entreating entrance at my chamber door;-
This it is and nothing more.”
Half-dressed I gently pushed the door back left uncertain,
“No media allowed before games on Sunday,” I implored.
“The fact is I was napping and you came sneaking up behind the curtain
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my locker door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you,” here I pushed further back the door.
Darkness there and nothing more.
This disrespected ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore.
“Though thy head be shorn and shaven, Suggs, surely you are craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Chesapeake shore-
Tell me how can I escape thy vengeance on this day of pomp galore!”
Quoth the Ravens, “Nevermore.”
Much I marveled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little comfort, little joy it bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blest with seeing Ngata at his locker door,
Reed or Lewis upon the quaking shoulders by his locker door,
Quoth the Ravens, “Nevermore.”
But these Ravens, so dismissed by pundits raving,
Possessed such fiery eyes that now burned into my bosom’s core,
With these grim, ungainly, ghastly, ghostly and ominous birds of yore,
“Things of evil – if birds or devils – begone from by my locker door!
In a moment’s haste, you threaten to turn my face to paste!”
Quoth the Ravens, “Nevermore.”
Now I slump down deeply weeping, just an hour ago, I was sleeping,
These fearsome winged creatures now have leapt to mind from locker door.
“Set me free, you putrid beasties! Where’s Gronkowski? Where’s Wes Welker?”
Any fleeting sense heroic shriveled as they stood there stoic,
Dragged and pulled I was from locker door, now assured of what’s in store.
Quote the Ravens, “Nevermore!”
