Christine M. Flowers: Those Poe, pathetic Eagles

With apologies to the author of "The Raven."

ONCE UPON a Sunday dreary, as I pondered, weak and weary

Over how many ways our football team could screw up the season ever more,

While I pondered, fingers tapping/On my pillow, nerves now snapping

Suddenly there came a rapping, rapping at my chamber door/'Tis some relative I muttered, living on the same house floor

Only this, and nothing more.

Ah, distinctly I remember, it was there in late November

And I knew that we'd surrendered any chance for playoff scores/Eagerly, I wished for April, when the Phillies would be staples/And this damned and cursed wasteful

Team would be forgotten lore.

"Go away," I sharply uttered, to the seeker at my door

Just my brother, I was sure.

With one eye upon the TV, did I listen, so uneasy/To the tapping, turning queasy as the

Eagles sank still more,

Wanting to avoid the sorrow of the feeling on the

Morrow that McNabb had no tomorrow

In a town, where once adored.

IREACHED OUT to my pursuer, rapping at my chamber door/"Come on in, this game's a bore."

But the door remained unopened and, annoyed, I yelled,

"It's open" in a voice, now lost and broken,

Broken by the shameful score,

We had but one touchdown, sinful/While the Ravens looked quite win-full/As they picked off passes in full, each and every one that soared.

"We should change our name to 'Turkeys,' " muttered I to that closed door

Only this, and nothing more.

Still the door remained immobile, like our defense

Hardly noble, and our offense, barely mobile,/Limping, limping, 'twas a chore

Just to watch their aimless running,/Dropping passes, touchdowns shunning,

Nothing in this effort cunning, nothing we could rally for,

"They deserve the tar and feathers," shouted I to my closed door/As I watched the Ravens score. (Again.)

Halfway through the game I wondered, when we'd tear McNabb asunder

For his many, fatal blunders,/Blunders we'd paid dearly for,

How I thought, could we excuse him

Now we needed to abuse him/And to finally, FINALLY, lose him,

Send him to the Jersey Shore,

"Banish him!" I screamed in anger turning to my bedroom door/Yes I did, I did implore.

AND AS IF my voice could carry through the screen, they did not tarry/Donovan was benched and nary, nary a fan complained or roared,

For we knew that he was finished,/Lost, lethargic, flawed and blemished

Nothing left of promised greatness, greatness

That was simply lore,

"Come on in and gloat, dear brother, gloat with me, Mac's done for sure!"

But the door stayed as before.

Turning back to watch the carnage there upon the line of scrimmage/I beheld a tragic image, there in lovely Baltimore,

We were losing, sinking quickly/Every player looking sickly,

No one earning paychecks, strictly sleepwalking

And nothing more,

"Hurry up and watch this horror, they will never, ever score!"

Muttered I, to my closed door.

Then I thought about the season,/Trying to devise some reason that we still might make post-season

Even with our dismal score,

Things like this are not uncommon,/Wild delusions grip the fallen,

And convince us, while we're bawling/That we're really not so poor,

"Maybe Dallas and the Redskins will implode, they've done before!"

This said I, to my closed door.

BUT I KNEW that this was madness, and I saw, through tears of sadness

That the Ravens jumped in gladness, gladness in their Baltimore/Suddenly their fans were cheering, and I started deeply fearing

The debacle swiftly nearing, nearing, searing, what a chore!

"Come and mourn with me, dear brother, open up the bedroom door!"

No response came, as before.

Slowly I approached the doorway, pulled the handle, and it gave way/There revealing brother Teddy, standing at my chamber door,

In his hands he held an object, which it seemed he now would reject/Throwing it at my feet, abject, ripped and fluttering to the floor

"There, he said, our season tickets, ones we haven't used before."/We don't need these . . .

Anymore. *

Christine M. Flowers is a lawyer.

E-mail cflowers1961@yahoo.com.