Holy smokes, Ma, I’m goin’ to bed,
The Pats are toast, they’re deader than dead…
They’re twenty five down and it just ain’t right…
Ma, it’s just not New England’s night…
Brady’s got no time to move or breathe,
They’re playing so bad I can hardly believe,
They can’t run or pass, they can’t defend,
The game’s half done, but it’s at an end,
Stick a fork in ‘em and close the door,
Ma, I just can’t watch no more.
Where’s my team, I just want to know..
Ma, I just can’t watch no more.
Listen here son, now listen to me,
Get off this phone, turn on the T.V.,
And get ready for miracles, stop your fussin’,
They’ll play in a way to which you’re accustomed,
The Falcons are tough, no doubt about that,
And the sheep of defeat are getting fat,
Yes, the gators are in the moat,
They’ve got the horses, but we’ve got the G.O.A.T.
Have you forgotten, my boy, about number Twelve?
And all those trophies upon that shelf?
Get your deflated heart off the floor,
This team has danced to this music before,
This team will rush and pass unabated,
It’s the rest of the league that will feel deflated
They’re coming back, with no hesitation,
And this will be a great game of redemption,
They’re coming back, and New England will party,
When evil Goodell hands Bob the Lombardi.
I know things are cloudy, but the sun will rise,
As your Patriots will take the ultimate prize.
Now remember your team, and where you are from,
And love your Patriots, and love your mom.
Let me make this clear, son, and make this plain,
Your New England Patriots will win this game.

Listen to Carl’s poem


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