Sunday Football

My Grandpa likes to watch football games,
and every Sunday it’s always the same.
He gets his Bud and the big stuffed chair.
He warns us: “Don’t nobody get in my hair,
cause today is the day I’ve been waitin’ for,
today the Cowboys play that average Bart Starr
and his cheeseheads from somewhere up north.”

“My boy, Roger, is gonna’ eat their cheese!
It’s likely to be a blowout breeze.
In fact, it’ll be over before the first half ends.
Can’t understand why those Packers spend
so much money to get to Big D
when any half-wit can clearly see
that America’s Team is the best.”

Well, the whistle blew and the Cowboys kicked.
What happened next was just too durn quick.
They took the ball on their own 25,
juked and jived while Grandpa cried:
“Get that guy before it’s too late.”
The touchdown left him in an awful state.
It got worse as the day went on.

Now, here’s a fact that you ought to know:
when Grandpa gets mad, he talks real slow.
“I…don’t…like…this!”, and when he does
I’d get out of the way if I was you, Cuz.
He’s been known to roll on the living room floor,
cryin’ and kickin’, his attitude’s poor.
He don’t take losin’ easy.

Well, sir, the game was a blowout. You could say that.
When the last whistle blew Grandpa just sat
in his big easy chair, starin’ at the wall
when my cousin, Bubba, walked down the hall
and called out to Grandpa: “Did we win the game?”
I dived behind the sofa cause I could see the flame
torchin’ off in Grandpa’s brain.

When the ambulance left with Grandpa inside,
we thought this might be his last Cowboy ride,
but in an hour or two he gave us a call:
“I’ll be waitin’ for you outside the Mall.”
Once in the car, he appeared quite tame,
til he said: “Let’s get ready for next week’s game.”
O Lord, here we go again.