It’s Superbowl time in American houses
lots of drinking and yelling and beating of spouses.

I’ll explain the allure just in case it seems silly.
It’s when men can be men as they want to be really.

But what are they venting at Superbowl time?
It’s a taboo emotion that warrants a rhyme.

There’s a homoerotic flame burning in fans.
It flares up in the parking lots, bleachers and stands.

With millions of neo-apes dressed in their meme
emoting as though they were part of the team.

They gather to celebrate masculine feats
and croon like young girls for men wearing cleats.

To be in the locker room is their big dream.
So it’s not just athletics that make these fans cream.

On Superbowl Sunday they take to the streets.
With flamboyant pride they consume their best meats.

The sausage fest opens with talk of the ’spread’.
They drink beer and suck hot dogs with things on their heads.

Testosterone surges and high fives begin.
The pre game TV show stirs something within.

Soon the studs form a circle with stares straight from jail.
One big man gets the head and the other the tail.

Then the game’s underway and all eyes hit the tube.
Tension builds up so thick that you almost need lube.

Long snappers, pooch kicks, oh it all sounds so tough.
That ’stiff arm turn over’ is especially rough!

Tight ends lose their safeties, there’s a guy called ‘The Rocket’
A ‘wish bone’ keeps your best man safe in the pocket.

An end around, bump and run, he’s going long!
Find the end zone, young stallion, that’s where you belong!

They’ll explode if he breaks out his best touchdown dance -
gyrating his package in tight shiny pants.

They’ll collide to bump nipples while grunting to cheer.
It’s a man’s holiday and it’s cool to act queer.

So bring costumes and make up and your luckiest charms.
And jump up and down with a man in your arms!

Toss a friend’s oblong balls, wear another man’s name.
Or just chill on the couch and enjoy the big game.

You’ll play catch between quarters and go long for a pass.
And after you score you can slap some man ass.

For this is what football and freedom inspires.
A gay pride parade of self loathing deniers.

Let’s dress up like we matter
and make idle chatter
with people in paper top hats.

Let’s drink till we cry
and then fuck some strange guy.
Did you think I’d forgotten ’bout that?

Let’s stand there with the drunken masses
and watch some countdown like total asses
then kiss each other like it isn’t a pain
that’s when I’ll disappear to blow lines of cocaine.

Let’s get separated and lose each other.
I’ll hang at the bar with some sad, lonely brother.
You can cry by the pool till some young guy brings wine
then blow him and fuck him, like you did for ‘09.

I remember the lies when I caught you two after.
Sitting there where I left you, with drinks and real laughter.
You may always maintain that you never even kissed.
But tonight I’ll get even with an escort from craigslist.

Happy New Year, Bitch.