(I did not create this. This was on Philly.com. Credit goes to Daniel Twer with Kevin Twer & Doran Twer.)
Twas the week before Christmas, and up in New YorkThe Eagles were done, they’d been stuck with a forkDown by three scores--barely eight left to goThe loss to the Giants would be a huge blow
The fans had been moaning, they wept and they pledHope for just Wild Card all that danced in their headsAnd I in my tee shirt, and green Eagles’ capWondered aloud ‘bout that three-quarter nap
When out on the turf, there arose such a clatterI sprang from the couch to see what was the matterAway to the TV, I flew like a flashThen I started to shake, and then started to thrash
The moon on the crest of that pitiful fieldShowed glimpses of Giants beginning to yieldWhen what to my wondering eyes should soon gleamBut a touchdown, and score: 31-17With a man at the helm, so lively and quickI knew in an instant, it must be St. Vick
More rapid the Eagles’ yardage it cameAnd he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name
“Now Celek, now Maclin, now Avant and JacksonYou must give your all, and play up to the max-mumTo the top of the standings! Don’t falter. Don’t stall!Now dash away! Dash away! Score, we must all!”
As dry leaves that before a wild hurricane flyWhen they meet with no obstacle as they go whizzing bySo toward the end zone, the Eagles they flewWith St. Vick, their leader, feeling brand newAnd then, in a twinkling, I heard such a roarOnsides recovered; could we reach 24? As I drew in my head, and I turned up the sound,Into the zone St. Vick dashed with a bound.
He was dressed in his uni, adorned with a sevenTaking his fans one step closer to heavenHe wouldn’t be tackled, would not take a sack Was it real or a dream? Could they really come back?
His eyes, how they twinkled, his dimples how merryDirecting the offense to score in a hurryAs he cocked his left arm drawn up like a bowA strike to J. Mac for the game-tying blow!
Then I spied big old Andy, play sheet stuck his teethWith a headset encircling his head like a wreathStanding tall with broad belt o’er his huge rounded bellyFrom too many meals at the stadium deli
He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elfHe would win this damn game, in spite of himself
With a wink of his eye, and a twist of his headHe’d given the Giants something to dreadIt was Jackson whom Andy’d sent straight to his workAnd make gruff coach Coughlin look even more of a jerk
He stood for the punt, his head slightly askewHe fumbled, recovered, and down the field flewAnd what to my wondering eye should appear,But a miniature man breaking into the clear!
I heard him exclaim as his mates came alive“Philly get ready for Super Bowl Forty-Five”