‘Twas the night before tourney and all through the state,

Not a Husker was doubting, they all trusted in fate.

The brackets were hung on their cubicles with care,

In hopes they wouldn’t bust immediately and be torn down from there.



The day off requests were nestled snugly on bosses desk

And red N’s were firmly affixed to all Husker chests.

With Barkley up on TV speaking straight gibberish,

I’d just settled down to check Tweets and get Twitterish.



When out on the lawn there came a sound, loud and hearty

So I leapt to my feet saying, “Now that sounds like a party.”

To my window I ran like Manziel to a model

Like Charlie’s Angels 2, son, I was going full throttle.



I threw open the blinds, ready to explore like Magellan

The yard was aglow, like search lights hunting a felon.

What I saw next, I’ll try hard to explain:

There were dudes all unloading from a G5 airplane.



With a scrawny little pilot with a build like Harry Styles

I knew in a moment, it must be Saint Miles.

Like they were fastbreaking, his players they came

And he threw off his suitcoat and called them by name.



“Now Parker, now Shields, Now Pitchford, Now Benny!

On Gallegos, On Rivers, Petteway get the Henny!

To the Final 4 Boys, to those Hallowed Halls.

Now bust brackets, bust brackets, bust you some balls.”



As dollar bills from a rapper making it rain at the club,

When they watch a girl popping while drinking their bubb,

So up to the rim the players flew like hot air getting hotter

And Saint Miles he flew after, like his hero, Harry Potter.



And then in a twinkling they tore down the hoop.

They were prancing and dapping and giving “whoop, whoop”s

As I drew in my head, and was turning around,

Down the chimney Miles came with a gangly bound.



He was dressed in shirt and tie, and his patented glasses

And his shoes still had scorch marks from kicking so many asses.

A bag of basketballs he had flung over his back,

And he pulled out a cigarette and tossed me the pack.



His glasses how they twinkled! His khakis how creased!

His hands, they were jiving like an extra from Grease!

His mouth was screwed up in a wry little smirk,

He started leaning forward like Miley Cyrus pre-Twerk.



He lit up his cig and he sat down in my chair.

He put his feet up and ran his hand through his hair.

He loosened his tie and cracked open a bottle with a pop

In one hand: his Dom Perignon, the other: his laptop.



He took another drag on the cig, he practically snuck it,

Looked me dead in the eye, said, “Aaron Craft? He can suck it.”

With a wink of his eye and a raise of his glass

“Don’t worry,” he said, “We’ll whip Baylor’s ass.”



He said nothing further, but his drink? He attacked it.

Downed the whole thing, then pulled out his bracket.

And placing Nebraska in the championship game

He retreated away like the hairline of LeBron James!



He sprang to his jet, with a whistle soft as felts,

The team blew into the night air like the hair of Mike Peltz.

But I heard him exclaim with the mouth of a sailor,

“Happy Tourney to all, now let’s go curbstomp Baylor!”

FIN