Posted on | January 7, 2013 | 11 Comments
The hashtag need not be translated, for there is but one Tide and it shall forever Roll. There is but one Tuscaloosa on the planet, and there is but one team that wears the fabled Crimson, and by whom all others must be conquered. (OK, shut up, Aggies. I’m doing epic poetry here.)
And lo, there was a name,
Heard as an echo awakened,
As if of a Lady possessed by many.
Terrible was that song, that sound that sang
Upon every touchdown they scored.
Then the vision came upon me, as I saw
A tide of crimson that rolled
So that the singers sang of their Lady no more.
Silent were the voices of those
Who came from the North
In the land of the Indians
At a river whose bend was South.
Silent they were, for the glory
Of which they would sing
Had ceased to Be
In the Cee Ess.
Two numbers I saw, a one and a zero;
The former the rank of the Tide, and
The latter the number of points
Scored by those who followed the Lady.
Down were they shut and
Silent was their band.
All the joy in Miami
Was for old Alabam.
The yardage amassed by the One,
Into silence it stunned
The Irish who had defied
The mighty, the awesome,
Triumphant Crimson Tide.