A Division Champ

Lord don't let me be

the frustrated deltoid of Jay Cutler,

 

a power never fully harnessed unleashed

a battery pack in and out of the new management ice baths

 

who must grip the air of I Could Give

Two Shits til last life to captain the ship of a soldiered

 

field. Don't let my need to make you proud

fall into the wrong hands perennially,

 

an existence off the back foot, starting

every 20 degree Lord's Day w/ muzzled ache

 

in a city that doesn't know that's why

it loves me. City so strapped for love

 

it can only spare resentment, thrown into a green

orange Gatorade cup. Lord let me be Jay

 

Cutler January sixteenth hitting Greg Olsen for a TD

not yet doused in regret, not yet hated by a city

 

that can't stop hating itself, the true bald ogre

of Urlacher hollering at midnight outside Lambeau

 

for Green Bay to come settle this right now,

4 scores and every single if only ago.