See you next year

Verse

Every year, same garage, same crew,

Same bare sheetrock Neer swears he'll get to.

Five drafts now them walls been naked —

At this point the studs are a league tradition, sacred.

Commissioner of the league, king of the manor,

Can run a fourteen-team draft but can't hang a wall panel.

Red dogs boilin' in the crockpot,

And Neer sips the water while the hot dogs get hot.

Verse

The rules ain't changed 'cause the rules are perfect:

Balk at the board, take your Fireball, worth it.

Draft a guy that's already gone?

Shot. And fourteen assholes singin' along.

Busch and Coors and a pen makin' rounds,

By round six, half the room's lost the ability to make sounds.

Verse

Scott Balliet couldn't make the date,

Sent Lurch to draft — and honestly? Great.

Lurch said nothin', moved like a sloth,

Quietly built Scott a team while eatin' red dogs.

Seth E took last place last year

So he bought the beer

Nothin' humbles a man quicker, Lord,

Than fundin' the party where they mock his board.

Verse

Jerry, Colton, Cody — Broncos, all three,

That's a support group, not a fan base, if you're askin' me.

Three grown men, one shared disease,

Draftin' orange and prayin' on their knees.

Every Denver name that hit the board,

One of 'em reached — and the other two roared.

Verse

T-Brads flew the Eagles flag alone,

One Philly guy, deep in Bismarck, far from home.

Drew's ridin' the Dolphins wave again this year —

Undefeated in September, gone by the new year.

And Richter — Richter didn't drink. Not one.

Hockey guy watched fourteen livers come undone,

Woke up this mornin' fresh as spring dew,

The only man in the league the Fireball never knew.

Verse

Izec showed up how champs show up: annoying.

Most rings in the league and real self-enjoying.

Gietzen made the playoffs once — his first —

Now he's talkin' back-to-back like the fever won't burst.

One playoff run and the man's a dynasty,

Slow down, Gietzen. We remember the other nine, see.

Verse

Bales pulled the veteran move of the year —

Took a nap BEFORE the draft. A professional, sincere.

Man's famous for passin' out mid-round,

This year? Wide-eyed at midnight, holdin' down ground.

Meanwhile Austin, gettin' old and gettin' soft,

Called an Uber with five rounds left and shipped his ass off.

Couldn't hang. Too drunk, too tired, too gray,

His last picks made by committee — and the committee made him pay.

Verse

Adam was WASTED. Bouncin' off the wall,

Every trip to that board a coin-flip whether he'd fall.

He'd stand up, steady himself on a chair,

Navigate the concrete like it wasn't there,

Squint at the board through one workin' eye,

And slap down picks that made grown men cry.

Verse

Adam rose. He wobbled. Tried tried to walk

Stuck a sticker up while the whole room talked.

Nick Chubb.

The room went quiet in a beautiful way —

The kind of quiet where everyone's savin' what they're gonna say.

How'd you draft a guy who is retired at RB?

And then a backup QB in the 16th?

So raise a red dog and a lukewarm beer

See you all next year