(I’ve been doing this poem, or some version of it since way back when our coach was one Mark Anthony Pelini and we were still in the Big 12. So, pull up a stool, grab some heavily spiked eggnog and let’s enjoy the most wonderful time of the year!)

’Twas the night before Gameday, and all through Nebraska

All fans were so ready for the team to kick ass, bruh;

The cold ones were stocked in the fridges, just chillin’,

In hopes that St. Frost would give reason to spill’em;

The players were nestled all snug in plush beds;

While visions of Zip-smashing danced in their heads;

As Mario AF sipped brandy, Chinander was drawing a play,

Duval had just settled down for some squats ‘cause: LEG DAY,

When down on the street there arose such a clatter,

They sprang to their feet to see what was the matter.

Away to the window, they were flying, dude,

They were joined at the window by coach Barrett Ruud.

The streetlamp shone on the construction on the street down there,

(It’s Lincoln, after all, that streets are always closed for repair.)

When what to their wondering eyes crested the hill,

But a swagged out coach, with some chaw in his grill,

Driving a fancy pickup, license plates said “The Boss”,

They knew in a moment, it must be Saint Frost.

Artist’s Rendering from ancient manuscript.

More rapid than eagles his players they ran,

And he whistled, and shouted, and said “Come on, man!”:

“Now, Freedom! now, Stille! now Foster and Bell!

On, Martinez! on, Gifford! Let’s make Bowden’s life hell!

To the top of the polls! to the top of the bracket!

So let’s Lizzy Borden, show the world we can hack it!”

As fans that to the message boards fly,

when a QB transfers, the players took to the sky;

So up to the housetop the players they flew

With the truck full of boys, and St. Frost he went too —

And then, in a twinkling, up on the rooftop

The sound of pads cracking, and a champagne cork *Pop*.

The young coaches, they ran, like a plane dodging a bogey

Mario AF rode the elevator, while smoking his stogey.

Frost was dressed all in red, what don’t believe us?

On his feet were contractually obligated 3-stripe Adidas;

His eyes — how they twinkled! his dip-lip how it jutted!

Then he swallowed that chaw, just like that it was gutted!

He smiled and sat on a throne made of skulls,

And chased down his dip with $6,000 champagne pulls;

“Are those human?” Ruud gulped, pointing to bones

“Remember those thieves?” Frost answered. Chilling in tone;

He had a broad neck and a laugh that got louder

And he snorted a line of the finest protein powder.

He was terrifying and v. cool and his eyes pierced like a dagger,

Though we haven’t seen it round here in years, I think it’s called swagger;

Ancient woodcarving, depicting St. Frost.

A wink of his eye and a twist of his head

Soon let them know they had nothing to dread;

He spoke no more words, but went straight to his work,

running drills with his players, it was nearly beserk,

And lifting two fingers high in the air,

He aimed double birds at Wisconsin, then Iowa got its share;

He sprang to his whip, to his team gave a whistle,

And away they all flew like a win-seeking missile.

But I heard him exclaim, as up they sped past —

“Happy gameday to all, now let’s kick Akron’s ass!”