[34 Days to Go] - Ulysses Walked With Wolverines

It little profits that an idle fan           

Near this dark tv,  among these skeptics

Match’d with aged buddies,  I mete and dole

Unequal expectations on Rich Rod,

Who strives,  plans,  and coaches,  and knows not me.


I cannot rest from internets,  I drink

Life to the lees:  all times I have enjoy’d

Greatly,  have suffer’d greatly,  both with those

That loved me,  and alone:  on couches,  floor.

The angry Michigan hating-God dash’d

Budding prospects for a winning season.

For always roaming with a hungry heart

Much have I seen and known:  championships,

And wins,  losses,  coaches,  rivals,  heartbreak.

Myself not least,  but have cheered through them all;

And drunk delight of battle with my peers

In ringing stadiums of the Big Ten.

I am a part of all games I have seen;

Yet great success is a scale whereby we

Weigh our expectations.  An untravell’d,

Unthink’ably black era have we liv’d.

How anguish’d are we to lose:  nay,  flounder?

To fall from mountains,  once-victorious?

As though to win were happiness,  were Life.

Two years pass’d all too tort’uous – misery.

Little remains:  but ev’ry hour is an

Opportunity for something greater.

Coach Rodriguez,  a bringer of new ways,

Claim’d some two Suns to rebuild and retrain,

And this Blue spirit yearning in desire

To chase victory like a sinking star,

In the Biggest House ever known to man.

Hail!  This is my Team,  mine own Wolverines,

For whom I carry my torch and my pride.

Well loved by me,  they labour endlessly

To make tough a doughy people;  through hard

Practice they elevate themselves skyward.

Near blameless is Rod,  centred in the storm

Of lawsuits,  investigations,  char’cter

Assassinations.  In offices of

Schembechler Hall hearths burn late into night.

Whilst  The Game waits,  he works his work,  I mine.

There lies the field;  the Big House near complete;

There stands the empty scoreboard:  new seasons

Await.  My Michigan Men,  souls that have

Toiled,  and wrought,  and fought with me — That e’er

With a frolic welcome took the hardships

And the glory.  You and I are Arr’gant:

Arrogance hath its honour and its toil;

Loss dims it not:  and something ere the End,

Some play of noble note will yet be done,

Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.

The lights begin to twinkle from the Arbor,

The long summer wanes;  the slow clock  ticks,  tocks.

The deep  MGoWeb  moans round with many

Voices.     . . .       Come,  my friends,  ‘tis not too late to

Seek a newer form of facial hair.  Push

Off,  and sitting well in order smite the

Follicles from your cheeks:  for my purpose

Holds to grow a magnanimous  Mustache!!

It may be that the games will wash us down;

It may be we shall touch the crystal ball,

And see the great Yost,  whom we all well knew.

Though much is taken,  much abides;  and though

We are not now that strength which in old days

Moved earth and heaven;  that which we are,  we are;

One equal temper of heroic hearts,

Made weak by time and fate,  but strong in will

To  Strive, to  Grow, to  WIN,  and not to yield.

HAIL!  HAIL!

Mustaches For Michigan!!

Pillaging again this August …