The road to Atlanta is paved with Mylanta,
Tarmacked with Maalox and Zantac.
It's littered with pieces of Penns and McNeeses,
Montanas and Florida Atlantics.
You, Winthrop, you lose some. Kent State? Didn't choose 'em.
("I did," your neighbor says smugly.)
Already my brackets look like Buddy Hackett's
Groupies, which is to say: fugly.
No coach has yet tongue-kissed announcer Verne Lundquist.
( Hampton's coach last year came near it;
When he almost de-pantsed play-by-play man Jim Nantz,
I blamed it on youthful high spirits.)
Ne'er-do-wells, hairdo gels, bottomless wishing wells:
Florida coach Donovan's got 'em.
Yet over the weekend the Kid felt the beak-end
Of Bluejays peck-pecking his bottom.
Central Connecticut's showing poor etiquette:
They're Pitt-stained, those social pariahs.
Enough with the Dookies, God bless the Salukis,
I'm gorging on (Greg) Gumbelaya.
Subsisting on Funyuns, my clicking thumb bunioned,
I've blown off my family and friends.
I worshiped, on Sunday, guard Anthony Grundy.
As for what I've been wearing? Depends.
Such Afros (like hedgerows)!
Such copious cornrows! I feel insufficiently combed.
I said to my homie, "Do you like Wyoming?"
His answer: "I've never Wyomed."
Players in victory proved contradictory:
Tay Prince, you're a king in the paint;
Brett Blizzard was hotter than Satan's bathwater;
And tubby Kentucky's coach ain't.
The General's Red Raiders, like surly headwaiters,
Made themselves scarce from the get-go.
Ohio State, Valpo and 'Bama ate Alpo.
USC, too, shops at Petco.
Betrayed by his honey, the Zags' coach said glumly,
"Cinderella, you're dumpin' me?"
Along came Quin Snyder, who sat down beside her.
Yes, Missouri loves company.