Ode #2
With hallowed whispers, and silent prayers
We seek a steward to guard our lair.
"Who, oh who, will be our champion?"
Asks wretched, ragged, ruined fandom.
Always running, brave to core,
The man we have wears seventy-four.
Elite? Maybe not. But here he stands,
to force 3 points, to protect our lands.
Tom, oh Tom, the time is now
To fuck n.y.c., like a bloated cow.
Friends - Saturday, pray your hope rise,
As like the phoenix, Starlow shall fly!