It was three days after Christmas, and at Century Link
Workers were still scrubbing, removing a stink.
The stockings were hung and the smell made me queasy,
A stench as funky, as the feet of J.R. Sweezy.
The players were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of Carrie Underwood danced in their heads.
And Ditka with his mustache, and I at the piano,
Was thankful our coach, was not Greg Schiano.
When out on the field there arose such a kerfuffle,
Almost as awful, as the Bears Super Bowl shuffle.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
The moon on the breast, and yes there was rain -
But I'm from Seattle, so I don't complain.
When, what to my wondering eyes should a'tussle,
But a miniature QB, a Wilson named Russell.
"Now, Marshawn! Now, Golden!" Even Danny O'Neil
The 12th Man is worried, and I know how they feel!
The NFC West, the division we will clinch!
Just hand off the football to Marshawn Lynch.
And let us remember, in case we forget
The terrible quarterbacks, that made us all sweat
Stan Gelbaugh and Whitehurst, both left us a'skewered
And remember when we were led by that crummy Brock Huard?
So now we have a QB, the shortest of pros,
Barely five foot eleven, from his head to his toes.
Who knows what to do when he's trapped in the pocket
His arm a bazooka, his feet like a rocket.
As the fans, their chests covered with blue and green chalk,
Are shouting in unison ... "Touchdown Seahawks!"
So up on your feet, as we watch Russell soar,
Maybe five, six or seven touchdowns or more.
Then he sprang to his car, and yes, it was a Prius,
I knew then and there, I knew he would free us.
And I heard him exclaim, 'this silly beard itches,
but on Sunday we shall make, the Rams our b*tches!'