Elegy.

With apologies to Walt Whitman

1
O Ballcoach! my Ballcoach! the fearful game is done;
The QB weather’d every sack, and threw for 271;
Wofford is near, the bells I hear, the people all are cheering,
While follow eyes young Jared Cook, McKinley's return is nearing:
But O heart! heart! heart
O the hated black and red,
Who dealt the blow, my Ballcoach lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

2
O Ballcoach! my Ballcoach! there is no finer feller;
You lifted our benighted 'Cocks from the East Division cellar;
For you bouquets and bedsheet signs, for you the fans a-teeming;
For you they call, the drunken mass, their eager faces screaming;
Here Ballcoach! dear genius!
This visor off your head;
It is some dream that on the turf,
You’ve fallen cold and dead.

3
My Ballcoach does not answer, his lips stand still and pout;
The genius heart, it beats no more, for Whitlock broke his route;
The Cockaboose is safe and sound, but its bell a dirge intones;
From Smelley's hands, the last pass lands, picked off by Reshad Jones;
His Gator years brought rage and tears,
But from Gainesville he fled,
And in S.C. my Ballcoach be,
Fallen cold and dead.