J.J. is charged with driving while drunk;
He did flame out, like bricking from jump shots;
He gathers to a sadness, like the reek of shots
Breathed. Why will teams now draft this punk?
Coach Krzyzewski will cry, will cry, will cry—
No, wait, that’s Redick, bleared, smeared with booze;
He wears Zima’s smudge and shares the smell; the ruse
Is up now—Duke is not great, it is a lie.
And for all this, J.J. is never spent;
His mug shot’s up but he will cry in verse,
And like lacrosse, no, he will not repent.
At least he didn’t throw it in reverse.
His eyes were “very glassy,” and he went
And u-turned from the cops—what could be worse?