Game over, and nothing more.
By bloggers, by tweeters, by fans shaken deep to their core.
Yet slumber eludes, and so continues the rapping, only now louder,
That I rise from my tossing, my turning, and cross the cold floor.
What soul is so restless, what ghost so stubborn, I must explore.
Then sleep, and nothing more.
First flicking on the porch light, and then the dead bolt I unlatch,
I throw open to the night darkness the heavy, wooden door.
In steps a stately Raven, Lee Evans, still cloaked in regret,
"I had it, I should have held it, but that Pat, Sterling Moore,
Struck with no warning, and from my grasp the ball tore.
Now Super Bowl, no more."
"But Lee," I demure, "your feet hit the ground, first right and then left,
a catch, methinks, but why no review for to bring the matter to fore?"
But none would be done, nor demanded, so on went the game,
A rush to the finish, and no chance to restore
A touchdown that would bring forth a different final score.
To Indianapolis, nevermore.