The Buckeyes beckoned, autumn leaves aflame,
Scarlet dreams bloomed, whispers of his name.
But longing tugged, a southern siren's call,
Bulldogs growled, where peaches rise and fall.
“I’ll take my fam to Buford! It’s near my new home, after all!”
But Georgia ball is different, even those who are yet 18.
“Screw this—it’s hard” he thinks, “and most of these guys…wouldn’t even make Kirby’s team.”
Then Three million whispers, corn mansion bright and breezy,
in practices askew—pad-free, scarlet and creamy, and easy.
Oh and looming large, Drills like war time, athens bloody Tuesdays bring.
Then a bear-panther-now corn-serpent, tempting, offering:
"Big Ten solace, where victories are spun some,
Against lads less grizzled, beneath a kinder humdrum."
No longer Athens' hero, glory's faded gleam,
He sought Nebraska, a career half-dream.
Husker whispers, whispers soft and sweet,
“No practice padded battles, if you don’t mind defeat."
…The cornfields whispered, promises unsung,
A quarterback poet, forever young.
So Dylan wanders, seeking soft opponents, easier lads.
“After all,” he thinks, “in Lincoln, only Tuesdays we wear pads.
The Bulldogs growl,"whatever!" echoes, through rustling college trees.
But Dylan smiles, eyes on prized fees.
He'll grace the field, a king of the runza. ,But as shadows lengthen, what could have been, undone-za.
For Dylan Raiola, a tale forever aloft,
The lost soul quarterback, in scarlet and cream, soft.
Two years will go by, absent from the polls. But at least in Lincoln, they have chili with their cinnamon rolls.
Scarlet dreams bloomed, whispers of his name.
But longing tugged, a southern siren's call,
Bulldogs growled, where peaches rise and fall.
“I’ll take my fam to Buford! It’s near my new home, after all!”
But Georgia ball is different, even those who are yet 18.
“Screw this—it’s hard” he thinks, “and most of these guys…wouldn’t even make Kirby’s team.”
Then Three million whispers, corn mansion bright and breezy,
in practices askew—pad-free, scarlet and creamy, and easy.
Oh and looming large, Drills like war time, athens bloody Tuesdays bring.
Then a bear-panther-now corn-serpent, tempting, offering:
"Big Ten solace, where victories are spun some,
Against lads less grizzled, beneath a kinder humdrum."
No longer Athens' hero, glory's faded gleam,
He sought Nebraska, a career half-dream.
Husker whispers, whispers soft and sweet,
“No practice padded battles, if you don’t mind defeat."
…The cornfields whispered, promises unsung,
A quarterback poet, forever young.
So Dylan wanders, seeking soft opponents, easier lads.
“After all,” he thinks, “in Lincoln, only Tuesdays we wear pads.
The Bulldogs growl,"whatever!" echoes, through rustling college trees.
But Dylan smiles, eyes on prized fees.
He'll grace the field, a king of the runza. ,But as shadows lengthen, what could have been, undone-za.
For Dylan Raiola, a tale forever aloft,
The lost soul quarterback, in scarlet and cream, soft.
Two years will go by, absent from the polls. But at least in Lincoln, they have chili with their cinnamon rolls.
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