As our 11th walk-a-bout comes to a close…
so begins my duty to recite this prose.
Come with a ‘stache was this years theme…
And bring an appetite so it would seem,
For food was brought from tribes near and far…
And I got to tell you — we look bizarre.
So who shall be the recipient of this prestigious honor?
Chief Bullseye? Or Chief Stilted Baby Fly?
No, neither shall it be DTI.
How about Chief Silver Elk, long a bridesmaid and finally a bride!
Nah, ‘cause something tells me he is in for one bitchin’ mustache ride!
Maybe Talking Bull with whom I struggled through alternate shot,
Picking him would be wrong, so I cannot.
Chief Hands Like Feet forgot his stage name…
Perhaps the award is his I will proclaim.
Chief Turkey’s golf game left him full of anger…
And at the poker table it’s nothing but clangor…
So the choice is obvious, right?
For you see the trophy sits high atop a shelf in my garage.
Forgotten it was, left behind.
With a wife nine months pregnant you could say I’ve lost my mind.
Without a trophy to present there can be only one winner,
And I need to wrap this poem up ‘cause it’s time for dinner.
The Broken Arrow Sportsmanship Trophy is mine to keep.
And so our time together draws to a end…
With any luck I’ll not repeat this trend.
Ode to me.