'Twas the night before the Big Game, when all through the Midwest
Football fans were bickering over whose team was the best;
They crafted their insults with the utmost care,
In hopes that of the other team's suckiness t'would come aware;
The Purple and the Green fans dressed in their team's threads
While visions of division titles danced in their heads;
And LearnedFoot in his cheesehead and Bill in his Viking-braids,
Set out to battle with their rhetorical blades;
LearnedFoot spoke first: "Your linebackers stink - they're not too quick,"
Bill replied, "At least our D-Coordinator is not named 'Slowik!'"
Undeterred Foot declared, "Brett Farve's a stud, a real trooper,"
Uninvited, Saint Paul exclaimed: "But your runningback's a serial pooper!"
LearnedFoot, insensed, into the Saint he did lay:
"The Vikings' secondary is sieve-like (plus I heard they're all gay);"
Saint and Bill spoke together each sporting an evil grin:
"At least none of them are hooked on Vicodin!"
LearnedFoot's rejoinder was lively and quick:
"Daunte only scored a fourteen on his Wunderlich!"
Then more rapid than eagles the curses they came,
And we whistled, and shouted, and called each other names;
The Foot continued, increasing the friction:
"The Vikes have almost as many wins as drunk-driving convictions"
Then the Saint displayed just how low he could stoop:
"Let's not forget about Najeh - he sure likes to poop."
When out of nowhere, a priest did appear,
He looked quite angry- his face bore no cheer,
"Like your conversation, the NFL has no class,
People will be watching football instead of attending Christmas-eve Mass;"
Foot, Bill and Saint just stood in stunn'd silence,
Somewhat ashamed of our rhetorical violence.
Then we heard the priest exclaim, 'ere out of sight he did lurch,
"HAPPY CHRISTMAS TO ALL, NOW GET YOUR ASS TO CHURCH!"