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:

He Wishes for the Cloths of Referees

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.

Day of Reckoning

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.