A poem by Shelly Chang
Dedicated to groomygroomy, position 34-42 of “pick’ems” the last three years
It was he, the one I adored
It was he, number four
All the memories, all the scores
That night in Oakland, his heart soared
And then one day, he said no more
At that moment, my heart tore
The NFL now a bore
Can I pick the pieces off the floor?
Aaron Rogers, my esprit de corps?
Unprepared for what was in store
He came back like a whore
Not because he was poor
Just unable to walk through that door
He went to New York, to my abhor
Rather than retire for $20 million more
And pitch Viagra like many before
That’s when I felt we were at war
Once my hero, now no more
Once a privilege, now a chore
Does it matter whose jersey he wore?
Then he played, still “he” at the core
He, creator of dreams, maker of lore
I could not stay mad at him anymore
And from then, I was his, forevermore
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