Poor Tommy's quite deflated.
He's been depressed so long,
Since first some assholes stated,
His balls were pressured wrong.
This all, to him, was myst'ry;
No idea had he – none.
He knew not of this sophistry
Of wiles with an air-gun.
Tom thinks the balls are magic;
He takes them as they come.
He finds his plight quite tragic,
That he be thought so dumb.
The trials he's made to suffer;
The endless ball-debate.
There's never any buffer
From this damned deflategate!
And, still they don't believe him.
So, now he's going to court,
On this cheap, ballsy-air whim
That jealous ends have brought.
It's not enough to be smart,
To smile and have your way,
To give more than your own part
On ev'ry football day.
My god, I'm more than handsome;
Just take a look at me.
Must I remain hushed and mum,
Re my star family?!
"Beauty," once they gave its due;
Where's proper homage gone?
Now, they barely look at you.
Though nude, on the front lawn.
Though the world has turned on me,
Because of my light touch,
There's one place the truth they see,
Where they love me so much.
All I need is to appear;
The adulation pours;
Where the crowd's roar fills my ear;
Where all are football "whores."
They're not drawn to things like "air,
"The pressure of footballs."
They have just a single care:
That I get all the "calls."
So, it's here, I make my stand;
Let all else go away.
Here upon this sod and land,
With these dear folk I stay!
All of you can go to hell –
You, who so disbelieve'
You, who think I cannot tell
A football from a sieve.
Don't you know it matters not
To my fans -- everyone –
If I'm cold or if I'm hot –
I'm still their shining sun!
Boston's not the place to charge
Ol' Tom with doing wrong.
Here, he's always living large –
Forever the Big Gong!
Do your worse, N.F.L. creeps'
Gp play your "deflated" tune.
Here, among my Boston peeps,
There's naught but a full moon!
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