The only way I could pull myself out of post Super Bowl depression was through lyric therapy. Here is my inferior attempt at Keatsian tribute.

Ode To 18-1

As the snow settles over,
A wet-eyed New England.
And the Patriots fade,
Like a dying failed friend.

Let us all remember,
An extraordinary season.
Beyond logic, and history,
Beyond NFL reason.

Of the many fall Sundays,
When their game made us sing.
The perfection, great play,
As Tom’s passes took wing.

Of all the adjustments,
And all the game plans.
And a ball-hawking defense,
In great red-zone stands.

They beat Big Ben,
Came back against Peyton.
Beat Rivers twice,
And escaped the feared Ravens.

The records they fell,
Without ever a loss.
Stolen away,
By Brady and Moss.

And all the O line,
Kept the offense on bright.
A wall of teamwork,
From Mankins to Light.

As the record it grew,
And the snow replaced rain.
Don Shula and friends,
Didn’t drink their champagne.

The media brayed,
“We’ll wait and see.”
But Bill he steered clear,
Like his father’s Navy.

Stop and think for a second,
Of all of the fun.
And how cool that it is,
To be 18-1.

Yes they didn’t beat Eli,
Coughlin or Plax.
Who couldn’t have won,
Without luck being stacked.

But they’ve something to shoot for,
In the year of 08.
Improve your record,
And prove that you’re great.