The Favre Upon the Locker Room Floor

The Farve Upon The Locker-Room Floor
with apologies to Hugh Antoine D’Arcy
You’ve treated me pretty kindly,
And I’d like to tell you how,
I came to be this broken heap, you see before you now.
As I told you once, I was a man
With muscle, frame and health,
Held every kind of record, amassing untold wealth.
To call me a passer, well I guess you could,
Gunslinger, more to the point, no one near as good.
Till the star- crossed time still in my hey-day,
When beady-eyed Ted Iscariot dissembled and betrayed.
Foul-fiend, cad and liar,
He’s the one should have retired.
Ere a year of misery had barely grayed my hair,
I was handed Broadway directly by the mayor.
Eight and three, boys, was my streak,
But the season did not end that week.
When it did it ended bad,
To see my visage replaced by Chad!
Revenge, boys, is best served hot,
Went and got my arthroscop.
Joined the horned men huge as sin,
Made to pillage not merely win.
And win we did boys and again,
Until the Saints came marching in.
Hand me the chalk I’ll scrawl the score,
Here upon this locker room floor.
Out crawled Childress, the supplicant,
On both knees he was no Bud Grant.
Like folks here say, said I might could,
And the usual old dogs hunt good.
On this trip, my home away from home,
Collapsed like the Metrodome.
Now little more than killing field,
Like Achilles, carried off on my shield.
That’s why I took to drink boys. Why, I never see you smile,
I thought you’d be amused boys, and laughing all the while.
Another drink and with chalk in hand, the vagabond began,
To sketch a bang eight with his claw-like hand.
Then, while using running back for pawn,
With a fearful shriek, he leaped and fell across the benches — gone!
But each night, for all us boys, the Gunslinger draws once more,
Like he did with his face upon the locker room floor.
Michael Feldman

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