The Game of the Year

It's the game of the year A contest for the ages In attendance are celebrities Government officials and sages Ceremony, pageantry and pomp As the gladiators get ready to stomp Onto the field of battle, to contend While we mortal onlookers pretend That what all this tawdry tinsel signifies Is that the combatants we so lionize Will be worthy recipients of the grand prize An impressive silver trophy the size Of an altar, rests on the sidelines As warriors position themselves on chalk-lines To damage each other on a field of deep green Each man prepared to rupture his opponent's spleen... We say that teen-agers' flings and romances Are half-baked, immature, risky flash-dances Yet considering our game-time circumstances It's we adults who canonize risky chances