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.