Another Oldie (with a wee bit of plagiarism)

~ The Jayhawk ~
by CorpusJayhawk Allan Poe

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a terrible skits of forgotten Phog Island lore--
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of someone gently rapping, rapping at the Fieldhouse door.
"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at the Fieldhouse door--
Only this, and nothing more."
Ah, distinctly I remember, it was the month before November;
And each separate dancing number wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the jamming; --Agbaji’s flying basket ramming
Final seconds, season ending—Self championshipless no more—
The Jayhawk faithful crowd doth roar—
Championshipless here forevermore.
And the silken, sad, uncertain dancing of each Crimson girl
Thrilled me--filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
" 'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at the Fieldhouse door--
Some late visitor entreating entrance at the Fieldhouse door;--
This it is and nothing more."
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness we implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at the Fieldhouse door,
That we scarce were sure we heard you"--here I opened wide the door;--
Darkness there and nothing more.
Deep into the darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no Jayhawks ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered words, "Final Four!"
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the words, "Final Four!"
Merely this and nothing more.
Back into the Fieldhouse turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
"Surely," said I, "surely that is something on our home court floor;
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore--
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;--
T'is a skit and nothing more!"
Onto the hardwood I did stumble, feeling ‘neath me a powerful rumble
In there stepped a Mighty Jayhawk of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched upon the Fieldhouse floor--
Perched upon a Jayhawk emblem on the spotless Fieldhouse floor--
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this Crimson bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
"Though thy crest be crimson and blue, thou," I said, "art brave and true,
A Jayhawk who many a Tiger slew hath battled on this hardwood floor--
Tell me what thy future holds upon this hardwood floor!"
Quoth the Jayhawk, "Final Four."
Much I marveled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning--little relevancy bore;
For we cannot now be shrill that the current coach named Bill
Ever yet was blessed with seeing a Jayhawk perch upon the floor--
Bird or beast upon the emblem emblazoned on the hardwood floor,
Who had won the “Final Four."
But the Jayhawk, sitting lonely on that center court, spoke only
Those two words, as if his soul in those words he did outpour.
Nothing farther then he uttered--
not a feather then he fluttered--
Till I scarcely more than muttered "Other friends have been before--
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."
Then the bird said "Final Four."
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store
Shades of 2008 unsmother desires welling for another
Hope spring forth my kindred brother no longer must this burden bore—
Bill shall be champion once more
After this years Final Four'"
But the Jayhawk still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, upon the floor;
Then, upon the crimson sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this mighty bird of yore--
What this sleek and slammin’ jammin’, Tiger killing bird of yore
Meant in croaking "Final Four."
Thus I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's crimson lining that the scoreboard gloated o'er,
But whose crimson and blue lining with the scoreboard gloating o'er
Ah, We shall win the Final Four!
Then, me thought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the hardwood floor.
"Rock Chalk," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee--by these angels he hath sent thee
Jackson, Arthur, Chalmers, Robinson, 2008 memories galore;
Quaff, O quaff this kind Mario Chalmers I’ll ne’er forget that final score!"
Quoth the Jayhawk, "Final Four."
"Prophet!" said I, "coaching mentor!--prophet still, if guard or center!--
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee on this floor,
Tease us not oh mighty seer, although we’re in the upper tier—
And in the Big 12 unequalled--tell me truly, I implore—
Will Bill win in Minnesota--tell me--tell me, I implore!"
Quoth the Jayhawk, "Final Four."
"Prophet!" said I, "coaching mentor!--prophet still, if guard or center!
By that Heaven that bends above us--by that God we both adore--
Tell this soul with anticipation, will we be number one in the nation,
A victor be when the bell tolls the final score—
A victor whose tale shall reign forevermore."
Quoth the Jayhawk, "Final Four."
"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or profit!" I shrieked, upstarting--
"From last season’s losses still smarting bring thy truth unto this floor!
Will the Wildcats string be broken, and the Dukies be but a token,
Fill this place with glee unspoken!—when the buzzer tolls the final score!
Place thy beak upon my heart, and cast thy form upon this floor!"
Quoth the Jayhawk, "Final Four."
And the Jayhawk, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the emblem of his visage painted on the Fieldhouse floor;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a angel’s that is dreaming,
And the scoreboard o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And the team from out that shadow that comes running on the floor
Shall be victors—in the final four!