Twas the night before the BCS Championship, when all through South Bend.
Not a domer was stirring, not even Tyler Eidert the tight end.
The cassocks were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St Nicholas Saban would stay away from there.
The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While learning priests danced around their heads.
And Mate Te’o in his ‘leaves, and I in my cap,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap.
When out on the field there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the sideline to see what was the matter.
Away to the endzone I flew like a flash,
I ranted and stuttered for the refs to throw up the flags.
The moon on the scaffolding of the new-fallen video towers
Gave the luster of mid-day to excuse making cowards.
Other sights my wondering catholic eyes have loved better,
A miniature coach, and eighty five huge SEC players.
With a little old head coach, who couldn’t be mistaken,
I knew in a moment it must be St Nick Saban.
More rapid than eagles his players they came,
And he clapped, and “a’ighted”, and called them by name!
“Now McCarron! now, Jones! now, Cooper and Mosley!
On, Yeldon! On, Williams! on, on Norwood and Lacy!
To the top of the SEC! to the top of the BCS!
Now dash away! Crash away! Smash away all!”
Like spittle out of Lou Hotz’s mouth does fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky.
So up over our defense with passes they flew,
With a mess of touchdowns, and St Nicholas Saban too.
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the field
Before the cutting and juking of each running back, we must yield.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Into the endzone TJ Yeldon leapt with a bound.
He was dressed all in crimson, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with grass stains and soot.
A football he had secured under his arm,
And he didn’t look like a Irishman, but had his charm.
St. Nick Saban’s eyes-how they twinkled! his scowls how scary!
He is beating us like a drum, is this man ever merry?
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the A on his shirt was as white as the snow.
The stump of a player’s leg Jessie Williams held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke of our dumpster fire performance encircled his head like a wreath.
He had a painted face and a not so little round belly,
That shook when he laughed at our players, like a bowlful of jelly!
McCarron was tattooed and bow-tied, a right jolly old elf,
And I laughed when I saw him torch our defense, in spite of myself!
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
He released another touchdown pass, much to my dread.
They spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
they scored all the touchdowns, then turned with a jerk.
Then raising the crystal trophy above their heads,
They put on their new BCS 2013 champions threads!
They sprang to their plane, to our team they gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard them exclaim, ‘ere they drove out of sight,
“Happy BCS to all, and to all a Roll Tide!”