The Hokie, Edgar Allen Poe Style

Once upon a Thursday night dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten scores,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my locker room door.
“‘Tis some Baby Blue visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my locker room door—
Only this, and nothing more.”

Back into the Locker Room turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
“Surely,” said I, “surely this is something we worked on in practice:
Let me see, then, what threat is, and this mystery explore—
Let Dr. Lou be still a moment and this mystery explore;—
‘Tis the Tar Heels and nothing more.”

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Hokie of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed
he; But remained perched above my locker room door—
Perched upon a bust of Bruce Smith just above my locker room door—
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this Hokie beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the maroon and orange it wore.
“Though thy crest be worn and smokey, thou,” I said, “you sure are no jokie,
Ghastly grim and ancient Hokie wandering from the Nightly shore—
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Chesapeake shore!”
Quote the Hokie, “Nevermore.”

Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen blitzer
Dodged by Taylor whose footballs sank on the unturfed floor.
“Tyrod,” I cried, “Beamer hath lent thee—by these coaches he hath sent thee
To run or pass—aplenty, from thy memories of Corey Moore!
Quit, oh quit this kind of nonsense and forget this lost Corey Moore!”
Quote the Hokie, “Nevermore.”

“Kiper!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if birdbrain or devil!—
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Defeated yet all undaunted, on this Lane Stadium enchanted—
On this home by horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—
Is there—is there ball in Charlottesville?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”
Quote the Hokie, “Nevermore.”

“Be that word our sign in parting, what is a Hokie, I’m not starting—
“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Chesapeake’s shore!
Leave no eye black as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my home winning streak unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!
Take thy cleats from off my back, and take thyself from off my door!”
Quote the Hokie, “Nevermore.”

And the Hokie, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Bruce Smith just above my locker room door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
And the Stadium Lights o’er him streaming throws his shadow after the Tar Heel war;
And the Tar Heels soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted—nevermore!

Zanes Zeros