The Year the Broncos Lost the Pennant

Or,

 Why Not Russ?

That Sportsing Boll commenced with some brown hand-egg flying past
A sportster’s flailing hands – all sportsing-watchers gasped aghast;
But the sportster’s spheric face-bar thing obscured light-ray detection,
So he failed to redirect, deflect, correct the egg’s trajection.

The sportsters chased the bumbled egg, determinedly to pop it,
Till skinny men in striped shirts shrilling whistles made them stop it.
A milling mass-confusingness immediately ensued,
But milling quit when massing sportsters somehow felt the mood.

They set the egg upon not-grass and formed a tessellation,
In different rows according to their bi-chromatization,
An arty-artsy ostentation lovely to behold…
Till all at once they’re tumbled, topsy-turved, and roly-poled.

And what happened to the hand-egg? Hey! That orange-clad sportster flung it
To a flabbergasted bird-head one, who catched the egg and clung it.
So nice of them to share the egg, and back-and-forthing pass it –
Though right before the whistlers shrill, they feel they must en mass it.

The Sportsing Boll thus on continued, sportsters keeping time
To drumbeats beating beats unheard without a reason’s rhyme.
But finally, endward shrilling shrilled of horsemen losing zest;
Cuz when it comes to sportsing hand-eggs…sea-birds sports the best.

                                                             —Bronc O. Nonymous