Still We Rise

I've had this poem bookmarked for a couple of weeks, hoping I would get the chance to use it. My choice is all the more timely due to the different positions people have taken on the defense's confidence going into the game. I think T Kyle (as usual) said it best when he said that he opposed it in principle but embraced it in practice. This week, I haven't felt like cowering or humbly looking down at my feet and mumbling about our chances. Do I think we're going to win this Saturday? I rarely ever say anything positive about our chances on any given Saturday, much less one this big. Perhaps we should act like we've been there before, but these guys haven't, and neither have I.

So for this week, I'm not going to be pessimistic. I'm not going to cower. I'm not going to chide our guys for their passion because I truly feel that they have absolutely nothing to lose. Nobody's really giving them a chance anyway, so why not enjoy this week? Why not revel in this feeling? I know I am. Reasonable people may, of course, disagree, but for this week more than any other in my short life so far, it's great to be a Georgia Bulldog, and I'm going to say so. With apologies to Maya Angelou:

Y'all may write us off this weekend
with your "easy schedule" lies;
y'all may stomp our chances in the dirt
but still, like Richt, we'll rise.

Does our confidence upset y'all?
Does it irk you talking heads
‘cause we talk like we can win this thing
and are not the walking dead?

Just like Murray's yards per pass
and your certainty in the Tide,
just like Rambo springing high,
still we'll rise.

Did y'all want to see us cower?
Bowed heads and lowered eyes?
Bodies trembling at those helmets,
seeing a pro team in disguise?

Does our lack of fear offend y'all?
Don't y'all take it awful hard
‘cause we're not afraid to play the game
for it all in our own back yard?

Y'all can shoot holes in our merit
as viewed through your biased eyes;
y'all can talk up Bama all you want,
but still, like Jones, we'll rise.

Does our cockiness upset y'all?
Does it come as a surprise
that we dance like we hear "Crank Dat"
and aren't waiting for demise?

Out from under Columbia's shame,
we rise.
Up from the stain of that '08 game,
we rise.
We're a red and black ocean, hitting our stride;
passing and rushing, we'll wear down the Tide.
Leaving behind nights of "big game fail" fears,
we rise.
Into a nightfall of raucous fans' cheers,
we rise.
Bringing them gifts like our ancestors gave
when Bulldogs last made those Irish behave.
We rise.
We rise.
We rise.


After reading a few of the comments, I decided to revamp this picture that I used for a previous poem earlier this year:



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