FETCHING SIDELINE REPORTER:
But, hush all you scribes who bloviate so,
For comes now fair Brady, he who is as super
In his mortal company as e're this game is to sport.
But soft! Let me look upon him as if I filled his embrace,
Ohh! A visage that Narcissus would have traded for!
And a manner that ne'er knows pressure or fear.
But, alas, 'tis women of fashion that he favors,
For one already has his babe, another his flowers,
And I: only a sideline reporter who can but model dreams.
Methinks the crunch upon his presence is so great,
And the paparazzi do shine forth such a spangled glare
That the great golden orb above must be dimmed
And the sounds of Niagara itself seem noiseless
Before the din of questions that confront our great Brady.
ALL THE MEDIA:
Brady, Brady what is afoot with thou?
Good men of the press box, I come whole to you,
For always the feats I have achieved, were upon my two feet,
And Sunday next, I shall play the same no less,
One game at a time, one good foot before the other.
But now, I bid you, let me take my leave to join my mates,
For by rolling alone, there is no way for Moss to gather passes.