The sun was setting in the east, The moon did quite the same,
When the Trumbull and the Eliot, Walked slowly from The Game,
The Trumbull cried; his team had just Been vanquished with his name.
Along the Charles's briny banks They stumbled hands-in-hands,
Still dizzy from the martinis They'd swallowed in the stands,
With testimonies to the squads, And toasts to both the bands.
"Your team," the Trumbull said at last, "Did not deserve to win;
Except for three presumptuous drives, You took it on the chin."
The Eliot laughed and finished off A jereboam of gin.
"The tide has come," the Eliot said, "Inside our shoes to seep;
Its ships and seals and walruses Along the shores do creep."
(And this was odd; the water was The Charles, and not the deep.)
The Trumbull sighed and wiped his specs, And said, "You're deadly tight;
Too bad you were too drunk to see Holt's plunge to end the fight.
He spun and dived and gained the line, To strand us--blue, and white."
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