The quarterback's cadence rings through your ears;

The ball is snapped, your whole bench cheers.

A half-back crashes right through the line;

You get ready for him and whisper "He's mine."

Stripping the ball from his hands right away,

And anything else that might get in the way.

Sweating bodies meet with such force,

That nature alone must take its due course.

The ball was fumbled; the glory your team's,

But the half-back is quite distraught, it seems.

He says " As a linebacker, you're one of the best,

But what's this I feel? Why it's a breast!"

 

One by one, new half-backs are crowned,

All wanting to be tackled and thrown to the ground.

But even if they had in their motives been true,

The gap was too tight for them to get through.

Had that hole been huge, and passed with such ease,

The back may no longer want what he sees.

Finding an opening, he crashes right in,

Deeper and deeeper, (he thinks he can win).

And just as his body starts to tremble with pride,

He's thrown to the ground, by you, from the side.

He says "Now that I've felt one of your gut-wrenching hits,

Nothing can beat a linebacker with tits!"

 

nothing can beat the sports poetry here:

 

Rumbling Stumbling Bumbling Fumbling: An American's Jittery Journey Through Life

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