SORRY SOUTHMOST FANS, NO MAS PITADAS THIS POST SEASON

The outlook wasn't brilliant for the the Dallas Cowboys Sunday:

The score was at sixteen-nine, with few minutes left to play,

And then when Dak Prescott failed, and then Elliot did the same,

A pall-like silence fell upon the Pokes fans of the game.

A straggling few got up to go and get some brews. The rest

Clung to the hope which springs eternal in the human breast;

They thought, "If only Dak  could get Schultz but one end-zone pass at that – 

We'd put up even money now, with Schultzie and with Dak."

But a missed point-after and then Elliot breaking late,

And then there was a fumble and then for Dak, a sack, 

And then with Tony Pollard out...

Habia but little chanza of Dallas coming back.

Then from five hundred Southmost throats there rose a lusty yell;

It rumbled through el vallusco, in Cristo Rey, the bells;

It pounded the Rio Grande and billowed  through the dunes like gales,

Somehow, Dallas, mighty Dallas, was going to make a miracle comeback.

There was ease in Prescott's manner as he broke huddle, and the offense set in place;

There was pride in Prescott's bearing and a smile lit Elliot's face.

And when, responding to the cheers, they waved and pumped their fists,

No stranger in the crowd could doubt this might be it!!

The bravado is gone from Prescott's lip, his teeth are clenched in hate,

He pounds fake turf with anger, for he threw the football late

Now the pinche 'Niners have it, and, with the game clock running, simply wouldn't let it go

And once again, their hopes are shattered by the failure of Dak's throws

Oh, somewhere in this favoured Browntown the sun is shining bright,

La banda is playing somewhere, in congales hearts are light;

Somewhere los batos laugh, and somewhere los guercos shout,

But there is no pitada in Southmost – for Dallas, mighty Dallas, by SanFran's been thrown out