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Chickens, Chickens, Chickens: You Can't Spell "Jack Prelutsky" without "USC Jerk"

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I doubt I'll ever be able to top last year's submission for this game, so I decided to simply repost that and not write anything new. Just kidding; please don't flag me for holding (although if you did, it would at least be more legit than Kubs's TD-robbing holding call in this game last year). This week's poem is aptly called "Last Night I Dreamed of Chickens" and comes to us courtesy of a guy who ended up becoming a writer courtesy of some amusing poems that he dashed off last-minute to attach to another project, which sounds like something that would happen to me--if I ever had any other good projects, that is. With apologies to Jack Prelutsky:


Tomorrow cream those chickens
when they come to our home field.
Beat them from sideline to sideline;
grind them finely ‘til they yield.
Chubb ‘em with our 27;
send Lo Carter up the gut.
Get some level-headed flaggers
and we might have chance to strut.

Crush them on both O and defense;
drive the visor toss count high.
Push the Ball Coach towards the golf course
as retirement draweth nigh.
Pluck those chickens, chickens, chickens
‘til they're blushing from the shame
from the great humiliation
of eggs laid in our ballgame.

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