BY SARAH BROCK / Senior Reporter

Twas the Day of The Game

 

Twas the day of the game and all the through the Plains,

The fans were stirring, with hatred in their veins.


The tailgaters partied all day in the street,

In hopes that Nick Saban would soon see defeat.


The students were packed all snug in the stands, 

Holding up sixes with their cold, little hands.


And Al in his cap and Tubs in his sweats,

Were all fired up to settle the bets


When out on the field there arose such a clatter,

And I sprang to my feet to see what was the matter.


To encourage the team, I screamed so loud.

I rattled my shaker and joined with the crowd.


The stadium shadows under the bright lights’ glow,

Seemed to warn of some evil lurking below.


When what to my wondering eyes should appear,

But a scared little quarterback, shaking with fear.


With a shifty, rich coach, so sly and so slick,

I knew in a moment it must be Satan Nick.


Slower than eagles, his players they came,

And he whistled and shouted and called them by name:


“Now Wilson! On Coffee! Now Tiffin and Hall!

Dash away, Dash away, Dash away all!”


As dry leaves in autumn do fall and crumble,

So too the Tide did falter and stumble.


Out on the field the players did try,

But with only one touchdown, St. Nick did cry.


And then in a twinkling after the game, 

The Tide looked around for someone to blame.


As I put my hands up and looked around

Out the tunnel Nick Saban went with a frown.


He was dressed all in Crimson, from his head to his toes.

His clothes were all tarnished as he soared to new lows.


The weight of a program he had flung on his back,

For 4 million dollars and a soul that is black.


His eyes – how they glared! His face – how scary!

His pockets were loaded, his nature so contrary.


His drowl little mouth was drawn down in a scowl.

His demeanor indicated something evil and foul.


The shape of two horns emerged from his head,

As he left Jordan-Hare with a feeling of dread.


He was a familiar face and a well-known name, 

But his 6-6 record is no claim to fame.


He is skinny and vile, a right devious old man,

And I laughed when I saw him, out the stadium he ran.


With a beaten-down team and a very hurt pride,

I knew Old Nick had disappointed the Tide.


He spoke not a word but went straight to the locker,

And talked to the team about this Iron Bowl Shocker.


But he smiled as he thought of the change in his purse,

And figured his record could always be worse.


So he sprang to his limo, to his team gave a whistle,

And away they all drove like the down of a thistle.


But I heard him exclaim, ere he rode out of sight,

“For another four million, I’ll set this ship right.”