RedCrake almost had me convinced that I should edit this week's poetry, but then I watched this video and I remembered part of the reason I
destroyed Yeats' work wrote these poems in the first place.
Auburn's Dirty Plays vs. Georgia 2010 (via CFBTruth)
While I cannot consider this my Hate Week since I've hated Florida longer and more passionately than I hate Auburn (although last year's debacle helped my hate catch up a bit), I certainly hate them enough to write these poems. As requested by T Kyle and with apologies to Yeats:
Had I officials' bestripéd cloths,
enwrought with whitened and blackened stripes,
the flags plus the light and the dark cloths
of gripes and snipes and thin-stripes,
I would honor cloth's neutrality;
but I, a mere fan, have only my eyes.
I cast my eyes to your neutrality;
call fairly lest you call liar my eyes.
Long have I blamed you and wanted you to pay
for your uncouth movements on that autumn day.
When, ‘pon hearing Solja Boy, the sight that met my eyes
was loathsome; you taunted me with savage cries,
dancing to that rap song during time-out,
helmets and towels and things strewn all about.
‘Twas clear--at least to my sound memory--
that you were dancing just to anger me.
And while you cranked dat, laughing and arching spines,
you shook helmets and heads along your side-line.
But Dawg, I'll not forget. I'll have revenge;
for those insults to Abuurn I shall avenge.
Cheating and cheating in most arduous conference,
the bagman cannot pay the Tiglesman.
Teams fall apart; the money cannot hold.
Revisionist history is loosed upon the world;
the black-red Dawgs are loosed, and on the field,
the celebration of dishonesty is downed;
the best sack those convicted, while the worst
are full of passionate pomposity.
Surely some vindication is at hand;
surely the Day of Reckoning is at hand.
The Day of Reckoning! Hardly are those words out
when a vast vision of Auburna delenda est
visits my sight: somewhere betwixt the hedges,
a shape with bulldog body and the heart of a fan--
a game planned as pitiless as Grantham--
is grinding out long drives, while all about it
fall linemen of the ignorant War Eagles.
The Bulldogs score again, and now I know
that o'er a century of hearty hate
refined to loathing by late-hitting tackler
prods Junkyard Dawgs, their hour come round at last,
to show the Barn proper hedge decorum.