‘Twas the night before kickoff, when all through Husker Nation
Not a creature was stirring, there was no noise creation
The liquor was stashed in the back of the fridge,
In hopes we’d soon throw them down, faster than a pitch from Brad Lidge.

The Huskers were nestled in their hotel room beds,
While visions of spinal-liquadating hits on Southern Miss, danced in their heads.
And Bo in his crewneck that he even wears to bed,
Had just poured himself a tall glass of Johnny Walker red.

When down on O street came a clanging like a bell,
Bo killed off his glass, leapt to his feet shouting, “What the hell?!?”
Away to the doorway, he sprinted full of sass,
Threw open the door ready to put foot to ass.

The neon of bar signs kept the street all aglow
So nothing, no nothing, could sneak up on Bo.
What appeared next made Bo reach for Visine,
It was a Cadillac Escalade Stretch Limousine.

With a little old driver, who honked Limo horn
And he knew in an instant, “Why, that’s Saint Osborne.”
The old coach kicked open his gold-plated door and they came
The players stepped out, as he called them by name!

“Now Burkhead! Now, Marlowe! Now, Choi and now Cross!
On, Ankrah! On, Compton! Let’s show ‘em who’s boss!
To the top of the poll, like a stripper getting started!
Now dominate! Now dominate!  ‘Til off they get carted!”

As dime bags to Hawkeye fans, they didn’t last long
They flew into the air like smoke above Chong.
So up to the Presidential Suite did they fly,
And Bo sprinted after, to keep up did he try.

He kicked down the door to the roof, and shattered the lock
Where he heard the opening notes of the sacred Tunnel Walk.
As he rounded the corner, he suddenly wasn’t alone
There was Saint Osborne seated atop a crystal throne.

He was dressed all in mink, from his head to his gator-skinned sneakers,
And he was wearing more ice than the guy who sells dope to tweakers.
A bundle of trophies were laid at his feet,
So shiny and glorious that they made Kanye look cheap.

His rings how they twinkled! His title trophies, how grand!
His hands were still red, from slapping Urban Meyer with his Husker pimp-hand!
His goblet was water, which he turned to wine for his fill-ups,
Under his eye? A teardrop tat, gotten while visiting Lawrence Phillips.

He took a puff from his pipe and smoke did he blow
He puff-puff passed on that mug, and handed to Bo.
He stepped light and quick like a professional courier
And his whole body shook as he laughed at Steve Spurrier!

He was lean and prepared, a true man of action
Unflappable, unfazeable!  College football’s Phil Jackson.
A nod of his head, and a raise of his glass
And suddenly Bo knew someone simply had to teach Taylor to pass.

Bo spoke not a word, the message was loud and clear
He would have to coach his ass off, take the wheel and steer.
With two middle fingers for the people of Camp Randall,
Saint Osborne reached down on his chair and simply pulled a handle!

From his chair to his whip he launched like a missile,
And they blew into the night like a bad ref’s loud whistle.
But Bo heard him exclaim, as he gave out a grunt,
“Happy football to all, let’s smoke these fools like a blunt!”

FIN

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Comments
  1. Sue Tolles says:

    fun to read, thanks

  2. […] an old classic.  This will be the 3rd year that I have done this.  Here’s year one.  And here’s year two. […]

  3. […] an old classic.  This will be the 3rd year that I have done this.  Here’s year one.  And here’s year two.  I kjnow I’m a day early, but I just think it’ll be a little something extra to get […]

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