We kid because we love (to hate)

Beware the madness of March, or some such nonsense: here we are again, filling out our brackets, choosing the wrong upsets and overrating the analyses. Has Seth Davis ever won an office pool? Has Stuart Mandel? More importantly, do they write poetry parodies?

Well, I've never won an office pool, but by gum, I write poetry parodies. And in accord with March Madness and the glory that is J. J. Redick's poetry, I've written an honest-to-God basketball parody, taking a break from the baseball poetry parodies I usually post. (By the way, if you haven't read Redick's poetry, turn off the tv and drug the kids, because you need to read it now.)

So here goes, our first basketball poetry parody, a tribute to Mr. Redick himself and Walt Whitman (and also our very general tourney prediction for Duke):

O Redick! My Redick!

1
O Redick! my Redick! our fearful trip is done;
The Duke has weather’d every rack, the ACC is won;
The port is near, the buzz I hear, Krzyzewski all exulting,
While follow refs with friendly calls, and Sheldon Williams dunking:
    But O brick! brick! brick!
      O the bleeding drops of red,
        Where on the page Redick’s poetry lies,
          Fallen cold and dead.

2
O J. J.! my J. J.! rise up and shoot the ball;
Rise up—for you the call is made—for you Krzyzewski calls;
For you S.I. and Stuart Scott—for you the fans a-screaming;
At you they curse, the swaying mass, their eager faces sneering;
    Here Redick! tired shooter!
      This arm beneath your head;
        It is Krzyzewski dreaming that
          Your shooting arm's not dead.

3
My Redick does not answer, his rhymes are pale and still;
My Redick does not feel his arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The Duke is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
March Madness trip, the loser ship, comes in with trophy none;
    Exult, Tar Heels, and scream, O fans!
      But K, with mournful tread,
        Walks the court his Redick lost,
          His shooting cold and dead.