Not, true, Pete, NOT TRUE:
Twas the night before the Final Four, when all through the OOD
Not a creature was stirring, not even one dude.
The tourney appearances were painted with care,
In hopes that Doug Gottlieb soon would be there.
The Animal was nestled all snug in his bed,
While nightmares of Tad Boyle danced in his head.
And Currie in his smugness, counted coins at the bank;
He had just settled our minds for life without Frank.
When out in the Ville there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Across Bluemont or Anderson, can’t remember which,
I ran with great haste to find out the sitch.
The sign upon Varney’s emitted a glow
And gave the lustre of daytime to objects below.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But an attractive Jewish man, whose eyes shown no fear.
“I used to be a point guard,” he said with a shrug.
I knew in a moment it must be St. Doug.
More rapid than Denis his players they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!
"Now Rodney! Now, Jordan! Now Angel, and Spradling!
On, Diaz! On, Gipper! On Upshaw, and Irving!
To the top of the league! To the top of the world!
Let’s get a banner in Bramlage unfurled!”
The cats would find success with Doug manning the gun,
Faster than racist tucks who from minorities do run.
So to the top of the conference K-State would rise,
With a team full of 5 stars, and Puerto Ricans! High fives!
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the news
Currie, the snake, was having the blues.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down on Yuma street, The Salesman I found.
He had been drinking all day, and probably crying,
For even the dimmest of EMAWs had known he was lying.
A bundle of snake oil he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a peddler, just opening his pack.
His shoulders, they drooped! His posture, so poor.
His eyes were bloodshot, he smelled like a whore.
His scheming mouth had turned to a frown,
All Currie could do was stare at the ground.
He was a frail little man, despite his young age.
Fitting for a snake that had escaped from its cage.
He looked up at me, with fear in his eyes.
He knew what to do, to divert my despise.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
He called up Doug Gottlieb, and I went berserk.
And with a reluctant smile, Currie shook my hand.
I thanked him and whispered “Now kill the band.”
He sprang off to Bramlage, to deliver the good word,
Hugs and adorableness, and rejoicing was heard!
And I heard him exclaim, as he exited the room,
“I’m sorry about Frank; now it’s Doug’s turn for DOOM!
