Twas the nightmare before Christmas, when all through the Meadowlands
Every fan was cursing, with no disband.
The coaches would be hung by the fans who rant,
Their hopes for St Lombardi soon faded to trance.
The players bungled all snags in their head,
While visions of confetti soon vanished in dread.
And Fewell in his Cover 2, and Quinn stuck in park,
TC just Cowhered for 2 hours in the dark.
When out on the City there arose such a clatter,
I banged my head for what was the matter.
Away to the window I hurried in rash,
Tore everything to tatters and threw up in the trash.
The gloom on the breast of the crest-fallen team
Gave no muster from mid-quarter four for Vick to ream.
When, what to my scolding eyes should appear,
But a monumental collapse, in eight tinny minutes near.
Old drivers named TC, Gilbride, Fewell, Quinn weren’t worth a lick,
I knew in a moment it wasn’t St Vick.
More vapid than Eagles has curses thy game,
As he bristled, and shouted, at his punter by name!
TC sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away went the punt down like a missile.
But I heard him exclaim, as Jackson dove out of sight,
“Happy Christmas to Eagles, and to Giants a good-night!”