Twas the Night Before Draft Day

[Paul Mracek]

'Twas the night before Draft Day, and all through the course, Not a liver was safe from the "shotgulligan" force. The coolers were stocked with cold beer by the case, As league vets and rookies prepared for the chase.  

Scott, the commissioner, all scheming and sly, Kept tweaking the rules like they’d help him get by. Years of a dry spell weigh heavy and grim, So now every tweak looks suspicious and slim. 

 Jeremy, the mogul, with buildings galore, Treats his team like real estate—just can’t let them go. Keeps clinging to handcuffs and mid-round receivers, The trade block’s a graveyard for all his believers. 

 Tony rolls in with drafts that are trash, His lineups look like he just closed his eyes and mashed. But luck’s on his side, this dude’s like Houdini, When rosters look hopeless, they still turn out dreamy. 

 Solon, the newbie, barely got in the door, His margin for entry? Just one vote or more. Now he's on the spot with no room for error— One wrong pick and he's league-wide terror. 

 Brent, once a punching bag, the doormat of shame, Now suddenly sharp, he’s upped his draft game. With that free app in hand, he’s become a contender— But still can’t shake off the “try-hard pretender.” 

 Tim, reigning champ, two belts in a row, Once a mad tinkerer, now in a dad flow. The Baby Curse looms, the league starts to cheer, "Let sleepless nights end this magical year!" 

 Goss, the out-of-towner, his rosters? A joke. Every year he’s the league’s easiest poke. But hope springs eternal in this man’s veins— If only his talent could match what he drains. 

 Burriss, oh Burriss, "Money Bags" so bold, Gave himself that nickname—man, that’s cold. No matter the moniker, he’s still league mid-tier, But hey, at least he’s always in gear. 

 Paul, over-prepared with spreadsheets galore, But by Round 6, he's face-down on the floor. Draft night’s a blur as he blacks out in shame— Too blitzed for Love/Hate, it’s always the same. 

 Thomas, the app titan, the data king, His fantasy empire ready to spring. But even he’s hit a dry spell of late, Is this the year his reign seals his fate? 

 JM, the league douche, full of bad takes, From hot waivers to fantasy fakes. Somehow still around, he makes every pick smug, If there’s a debate, he’ll give you a shrug. 

 Schwartz, the has-been, from glory long lost, His last win predates Obama’s reign as boss. But he’s still hanging in, hoping for more, Though his drafts are disasters we all can’t ignore. 

 The draft now approaches, and tensions run high— Friendships are tested, some may just die. But after the picks, the shots flow like water, And Love/Hate begins, as the night grows hotter. 

 So here’s to the league, both brutal and crass, Where grudges are held and smack talk’s a blast. May the rosters be blessed, the curses be broken— And remember, in Excessive Celebration, nothing’s unspoken!

Thanks ChatGPT

Paul Mracek

(404) 426-1753

pmr...@gmail.com