|
Ode To Gunther
By FAX.
Oh, Gunther, Oh Gunther, you are batshit nuts.
Some say you're a genius. Some say you're a putz.
You tell us you need just one player or two
And all will be well if Carl listens to you.
But those players come and they stink up the place
While you're sitting upstairs with chaw in your face.
And you spit and curse and then you spit some more
All in the name of a good team rapport.
Then next year you tell us it's all about scheme
And things will be better with our fav'rite team.
But that plan implodes as opponents score thirty
And our players whiff and don't even get dirty.
And when we fans say that it's all gone to hell
You tell us to screw off, we've got Kendrell Bell.
And if you don't like it, come in for a meeting
So you and your 'backers can give us a beating.
Then finally you have a big sit down with Herm
Who tells you, "It's okay." you just must be firm.
So you yell and blaspheme and kick fat cabooses
'Cause you're out of players and plays and excuses.
You've got it! You claim! It's not runs it's the passes!
(And the fact you can't find anymore big orange glasses.)
So you draft fat linemen who can't even run
And announce they're the answer. It's what you do, Gun.
FAX
|