Twas the week of Christmas and all through Berea,
The Browns were practicing their football diarrhea.
The 1960's Championships banner were hung with care,
In hopes a Lombardi Trophy would soon be there.
Joe Thomas was nestled all snug in his bed,
While Johnny had visions of coke and teens dancing in his head.
And Dan in his Bernie jersey, and I in my Cribbs,
The season is over, and we still never saw EJ Bibbs.
When out on the practice field there arose such a clatter,
Oh, It's just Johnny carrying his ladder.
He jukes to the right, to the left he makes a dash,
Then we all yell “Hey It's Gordon!, First name Flash”.
Josh puts out the Blunt on the turf below,
Johnny cancels his appoint with Bae to do blow.
When what to my wondering eyes did appear?
The O Line coach beating his wife while drinking beer.
Justin Gilbert the driver so lively and quick,
Look it's Dwayne Bowe, his obesity makes me sick.
Then Pettine and Farmer, they too then came,
And went over draft picks and shouted them by name.
“Now Gilbert! Now Manziel! Now Bitonio!
Let's draft a guy to back up Greco!
To the top of the draft! In the division we fall!
Give us more draft picks! We can trade them all!”
And then, in a twinkling, I heard of the roof,
A man with white hair, so rich he's bulletproof.
As I drew my head, and was turning around,
I saw old man Haslam, dressed in orange and brown.
Holmgren, Shurmur, Heckert,, all got the boot,
Chud came in and quickly followed suit.
Everyone gets fired, or stabbed in the back,
On to Banner and Lombardi, soon their bags would be packed.
Next is Pettine and Farmer, bald men that look scary,
2 years in, and their best work is a Tight End named Gary.
Jimmy has more money then we will ever know,
So much he gave ten million dollars to Dwayne Bowe.
“I wont blow it up”, Jimmy lies through his teeth,
The fans deserve better than this orange and brown queef!
We're tired of drafting guys with big bellys,
We're tired of Pittsburgh making us jelly.
I'm tired of the 60's and that dumb little elf,
Yet I still watch every week, in spite of myself.
All I want is one season with minimal dread,
I fear I won't see a Super Bowl before I am dead.
Draft some players who aren't scared to work,
Hire a coach who isn't a high-school clerk.
I'm tired of hiring inexperienced dopes,
“Save us Ozzie Newsome, you're our only hope.”
So there you have it, a Browns poem to sing,
To bring you some joy because we'll never get a ring.
Pressure is on you Lebron, make us the champs,
And don't you start with those lame ass leg cramps.
We have had enough, our sports owe us more,
The Browns front office is a revolving door.
And as another regime rolls out of sight,
“Merry Christmas to Cleveland, I'll see you draft night!”
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