The Lost Tebowr (Tee-bore’)
by DawgSpeare (Adapted from The Raven by E.A.Poe)
Once upon a midday dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary
Over many a quaint and curious roster of BullDawg lore,
While I nodded nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my locker door.
‘Tis some gator I muttered, tapping at my locker door
Merely this, and nothing more.
Ah, distinctly I remember, it was long before December
And each wounded gator player wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly, I wished the morrow, vainly I had sought to borrow
From my rosters’ surcease of sorrow, sorrow for the lost Tebowr.
Nameless here for evermore.
Presently my soul grew stronger, hesitating then no longer,
“Sir,” said I, “Or madam, truly your forgiveness I implore,
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my locker door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you,” --here, I opened wide the door.
Darkness there, and nothing more.
Back into my locker turning, all my soul within me burning!
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
Surely said I, surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore--
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;
‘Tis a gator, and nothing more.
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there slithered a toothy Lizzard as in Spurrier’s days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he, not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of classless lady, lurched upon by locker door--
Lurched upon the bust of UGA just above my chamber door,
Lurched and sat, and nothing more.
Then this hideous Lizzard beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
“Though thy crested locks be flattened, thou,” I said, “art sure no rathead,
Ghastly grim and ugly Lizzard wandering from the contest’s shore—
Tell me what thy putrid name is on the big game’s public shore!”
Quoth the Lizzard, “Tebowr.”
Much I marvelled this revolting reptile to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;
But the Lizzard, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he mumbled—not a flaky scale he rumpled—
Till I scarcely less than shouted “Other backs have run before—
On the morrow you will leave us, as claws of Dawgs will rage and cleave thus.”
Then the Lizzard said, “Me Tebowr.”
“Be that word our sign of parting, slime or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—
“Get thee back into the stadium and the next-day-contest’s shore!
Leave no blue-orange scaly token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my vision of Miss_uga unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!
Take thy scales from out my house, and take thy form from off my door!”
Quoth the Lizzard, “Me Tebowr.”
And the Lizzard, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the unsullied bust of UGA just above my locker door,
And his presence at the game, appeared not to be the same
As he ran and stumbled backward, unknown scenes ungainly awkward.
Was it him, the big One Five? Was Clark Kent yet still alive?
And the eyes of fans were viewing—what? A carnage or renewing?
And the Alltel lights streamed o’er him casting his shadow on the floor,
And his soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted—NEVERMORE!
Quoth the Raven, “Here’s the score: Dawgs Win! Dawgs Win!”
