Helmets on and dressed to kill,
They think back to the one that still need to heal.
Ten men in a combat field of white lines,
Making their mind and bodies grind.
Ten men with one thing to do,
Throw or kick that pigskin true.
With every plan there is a right and wrong,
And the victor doesn't always go to the strong.
Bodies collide and voices twist and blend,
For the audience the excitement never ends.
Painted faced, bare chest,
All of them wanting their team to be the best.
They cuss, spit and yell,
But this celebration is no hell.
Some get carried off the field broken and beat,
But all will come back to join the heat.
The crowd will pray when the coin is tossed,
And the audience will hiss if their team lost.
At half time there will be screaming in the locker room,
Out in the stands uncertainty will loom.
Until the last second they will wish and pray,
Then go home and wait for the fever another Sunday.
