The Eliot flushed Crimson and Avowed he'd seen the score:

"We broke up all the goalposts, And battered down the door!!"

(And this was odd because he'd spent The half on granite floor.)

The stars shone bright above the sun, The air was cold and hoar,

Tailgators and krokodiloes Slept dreaming on the shore,

The Trumbull and the Eliot Trudged, drinking less and more.

If we had drawn a Curtin on Your passing game, God knows,

If we'd gave Mac no Charity, To snare those ill-tossed throws,

If we had not Curry favored," The Trumbull sang his woes.

"Your grammar fails," the Eliot Pronounced with Bacchic glee,

Then slipped himself upon the shale And plunged into the sea.

The Trumbull cried to see a soul Go down so ungravely.

Above the wake the Eliot spoke, "If Harvard indeed won,

Annul my will, give all to her; Leave nothing to my son."

(And this was odd because he'd earned No coins since 21.)

"The Game can't be my own, oyster," The Trumbull bleated on,

"And my team's Greens and Henningses Can't make up for Holt's run,

Yet it was very odd because We'd beaten every one." (Apologies to Lewis Carroll)