A cheese head short
Of being a traitor in Packer land
Hiding behind the pages, the glasses, the bookshelves,
Hoping to be invisible for just a moment longer
In the land of a game that is so embedded in the soul
That anyone who is not involved
Is a treacherous spirit, a miscreant and worse yet, a nerd.
Exile for anyone
Who does not know the details
Of the fatal call, final move, final score,
End zone dance of the sacred holy men
In green and gold with laurels upon their helmets
And padding upon their divine muscles.
Zealous preachers of Astroturf and domed arenas
Recognized by the golden foam on their heads
And draughts on their lips,
Brushing away everything else in life as insignificant,
Almost criminal, in the height of the season
That blesses the houses,
Shuns the man, stuns the man
Who dares to stand up to the roaring crowd,
Admitting that he would rather read a book instead.