Man, I can't stand modern poetry.
Once, upon a nighttime dreary, while watching Blazers' bigs get weary,
From results of switching sillily every pick across the floor
"Scrap!" would shout McScribbles as opponents' point guards dribbled
While Kaleb's hair would frizzle as fizzled schemes his defense would deplore
And as the Talkin' Ball crew scream "Przybilla's not coming through that door!"
We sat, and glared, and nothing more.
Coach Stotts recalled, though, last December what he struggled to remember
while his defense, like burnt embers, left their scorches on the floor
Once it had been like this, that his defense was in crisis
And that Mavericks' new Isis, Tyson Chandler, lowered scores
That having competent big men helped Dallas earn a vict'ry tour
For the first time, evermore.
So when GM Neil Olshey, when he had agreed for Portland to pay
almost ten thousand each day that Kaman graced a gametime floor
called a conf'rence for those to ask, as a journalistic task,
he had Kaman with him to bask and answer all the hacks and bores
"Will he only play when teams like Golden State run up the score?"
Quoth Chris Kaman, "Nevermore."
Much I marvelled this ungainly man to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning--little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
in a presser could conceive to answer just one question more
"Shall your play recall to memory the wretched days of Jamaal Magloire? "
Quoth Chris Kaman, "Nevermore."
Thus it did astonish, and the tone of it admonish
This giant's voice abolished hope and with it squashed young Leonard's chore
Signed from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his play one burden bore--
Till the dirges of his Hope that Meyers' melancholy bore
Of 'Never--nevermore.'"
Be that our sign of parting, Chris Kaman!" Mo shrieked, upstarting--
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no scraggly beard as token of that lie Olshey has spoken!
Leave my contract's terms' unbroken!--quit the team and sign no more!
Take thy dagger from my heart, and sign the MLE no more !"
Quoth Chris Kaman, "Nevermore."
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Kevin Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the burnished court.
"Chris!," Stotts cried, "thy God hath lent me--by the MLE he sent thee
Respite--respite and nepenthe from my memories of Meyers Leonar_!
Will your number hang in Fame above the MODA Center's court?
Quoth Chris Kaman, "Nevermore."
And now Leonar_, never flitting, still is sitting, STILL is sitting!
On the splinter'd end of bench adorning Moda Center's Floor
And his eyes have all the scheming of a demon's that is steaming
And the spotlight o'er his scheming throws his shadow on the floor;
And his soul from out that shadow that cries to mount the floor
Shall get minutes--nevermore!
