While drunkenly walking out of the Harvard Stadium on Saturday afternoon,

C. Dog Parker knowingly handed me the following poem:

We lost the game, our standing's sunk, it's more than just a shame.

But now it's time to figure out just who deserves the blame.

Mistakes, mistakes--that's what we watched instead of concentration,

Fair Harvard got its veritas: no win and no elation.

We surely cannot blame it on the refs who called the game,

The calls were fair, we had our share, but blew it just the same.

Nor can we cast the blame upon the crews of ABC,

They're not the rube, for on the tube, was cinema verity.

The defensive unit is not whodunnit, no fault do we find here,

They only let the Brown team get ten points and yet, too dear.

Another tack--perhaps it was that fateful final quarter,

The Brownies toked, the Crimson choked, and we got what we ought'er.

Next in line, Milt Holt that swine, our tenderfoot QB,

If passing errs were millionaires, he'd be J. Paul Getty.

Alas! Alack! Unfair! Unjust! to only blame poor Milt,

The game's Gestalt: No one's at fault, all men must share the guilt.

So instead, let's pin it on the squad's entire psyche,

Up for Yale but not for Brown, which made the loss more likely.

And now we get our just deserts--at best an Ivy tie,

But if Yale beats our Harvard fleet, it's that cellar in the sky.

It's fourth-and-ten and time is waned (if only poems could punt),

The whole team railed (my name impaled), Cosell must bear the brunt.