How the Buccaneers Can Beat the Ravens, Edgar Allen Poe Edition

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The Tampa Bay Buccaneers host the Baltimore Ravens Monday night at Raymond James Stadium. So in honor of the great city of Baltimore, and one of it’s greatest residents, here is how the Buccaneers can beat the Ravens in Edgar’s style. Enjoy!

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious lineups and forgotten players

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my offensive line

“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my offensive line, Only this and nothing more.”

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak October

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor

Eagerly I wished for tonight;—despite my utter fear of slight

From the media should the Buccaneers give Baltimore a fright—something that I would adore

For the rare and radiant team whom the angels name the Tampa Bay Buccaneers

Named here for evermore

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple uniform

Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before

So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating

Tis some player entreating entrance at my offensive line

Some Baltimore player entreating entrance at my offensive line

This it is and nothing more

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer

“Sir,” said I, “ or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore

But the fact is I was sitting in the pocket, and so meekly you came rushing

And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my offensive line

That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I threw the ball to Chris Godwin;— Green grass there and nothing more

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before

But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token

And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Vita Vea?”

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Vita Vea!”— Merely this and nothing more

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning

Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before

“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my blindside

Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore

Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore

’Tis the Baltimore secondary and nothing more!”

Open here I flung the football, when, with many a flirt and flutter

In there stepped a stately Derrick Henry of the saintly days of yore

Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he

But, with mien of lord or lady, perched in the backfield

Perched in the backfield with Lamar Jackson-Perched, and sat, and nothing more

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore

“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no meager team

Ghastly grim and Super Bowl contender wandering from the nightly shore

Tell me what thy key to victory is on the night’s Plutonian shore!

Quoth the Raven “Nevermore tackling of our running backs.”

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly

Though its answer little meaning—little for Vea returning

For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being can stop him

Ever yet was blessed with seeing Derrick Henry stride down the field

Bird or beast upon the field of play behind his offensive line

With such name as “Nevermore tackling.”

But the Raven, sitting lonely in the backfield, did only

That one action, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour

Nothing farther then he did go—not a player that he stiff armed into the ground

Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other running backs have flown before”

On the morrow he will leave us, as many running backs have flown before

Then the bird said “Nevermore will you stop the run.”

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken

“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is it’s only obvious trite

Caught from some Baltimore fan whom unmerciful Disaster

Neatly avoided after starting the season 0-2

Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore

Of ‘Never—nevermore’.”

But Derrick Henry still beguiling all my fancy into smiling

Straight we put Yaya Diaby in front of him, and offensive line and more

Then, upon the Devil tackling, I betook myself to thinking

Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous back of yore

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous back of yore

Meant in croaking “Nevermore tackling.”

This Todd Bowles sat engaged in scheming, but no player expressing

To the king whose fiery eyes now burned into their bosom’s core

This and more he sat planning, with his head at ease reclining

On the line’s violent pushing the stadium lights showed

But whose violent pushing with the stadium-light gloating o’er

They shall press forward, ah, nevermore!

Then, he thought, the field grew denser, the press of big bodies along the line

Swung by Vea and company whose foot-falls tinkled on the turfed floor

“Wretch,” they cried, “thy Baltimore hath lent thee—by these players you shall be tackled

Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of 2005

Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget the lost SuperBowl chances!”

Quoth the Raven “Nevermore tackling.”

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if lord or devil

Whether royalty sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore

Desolate yet all undaunted, on this stadium enchanted

On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore

Is there—is there a way to tackle you—tell me—tell me, I implore!”

Quoth the Raven “Nevermore tackling.”

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if lord or devil

By that CBA that bends above us—by that cap we both adore

Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, Rachaad White can live up to potential

If he can clasp the ball with strength and hit the running lanes like Alstott before

Glimpse rare and radiant good running backs whom the angels named Tucker, Bucky, and White.”

Quoth the Raven “Nevermore good backs.”

“Be that word our sign of parting, lord or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting

“Get thee back to Baltimore and M&T Bank Stadium!

Leave no black hair as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!

Leave my record unbroken!—let us earn a victory at our home!

Take thy arm from our chest, and take thy form from off my field!”

Quoth Baltimore “Onemore loss”

And the team, never flitting, still is standing, still is standing

On the turfed field at Raymond James

And their eyes have all the seeming of a team destined for another run

And the stadium-light o’er Lamar as his streaking throws to Zay Flowers are shadowed on the field

And my team from out that shadow cast by Lamar and Henry

Shall be lifted to victory by a Stout defense and weapons at receiver—forevermore!

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