Once there was a football coach who was called Hushmouth McGunn,
Because his favorite expression was "Hush mah mouth,"
a deed that was aspired to by many but accomplished by none.
To his identity no sports lover needs a clue;
He was coach of the Juggling Juggernauts of Jericho U.
Rarely did the Juggernauts let Hushmouth down,
Thrice had they brought him the Rose Bowl crown,
And there were even greater triumphs beyond;
The fourth crown was dangling ready to be donned.
Simultaneous with his acceptance of the Bowl bid came the choices for All-American,
And of the 22 positions on the offensive and defensive
platoons, every one was occupied by a Jerichan.
Their prospective opponents, the University of Whither
California, bore so little resemblance to a
football team that when they appeared on What's My Line they baffled even
the omniscient John Daly,
But guess what, the entire 22 All-American Jerichans
were disabled in a plane crash while headed for
the Ed Sullivan Show, the news of which
at Whither California was welcomed gaily.
At Jericho U. an air of doom is prevalent;
Hush, hush, whisper who dares, Hushmouth McGunn is
saying his prayers, or the equivalent.
To address him is imprudent,
But sudden his curiosity is aroused by the approach of an unfamiliar object, a student,
Who says, Sir, it is only a humble student with a
4-bit wager on the Bowl game who at your feet devoutly kneels,
But have you heard the theory that a dozen apes
playing with a dozen typewriters could in time
reproduce every book ever written, from Homer's to Norman Vincent Peale's?
The coach for once cannot even say, Hush mah mouth, he says, Gadzooks!
Who wants books?
The student flinches but persists, Sir, suppose 22
apes were locked up with diagrams of plays
devised by such masters as yourself and
Wilkinson and Paul Brown and Weeb Ewbank
and Papa Bear George Halas,
Chances are they might learn them verbatim
and burst on the world like the aurora borealis.....
Came the New Year, and I tell you there hasn't been such an afternoon in Pasadena
Since Baby Leroy choked on his farina.
Jericho's workouts had been secret, and rumors were contradictory;
Hushmouth's only statement was that his squad
of third-stringers had vowed not to shave until after victory.
You could hardly call it a game,
Whither California was overwhelmed by the best features
of the Browns and Oklahoma and Notre Dame.
They never knew by what they would be hit,
A split-T or a banana split,
And they were driven out of their mind
When a rip in the Juggernaut fullback's pants
revealed an iridescent red and blue behind.
The score was 77-0 at the half, and Hushmouth's heart sang;
In the dressing room he delivered a joyously
excited harangue, in harangue-outang.
When he returned to the bench his only thought was
of the swathe he would cut among the ladies
When the greatful alumni fulfilled their promise of that sports Mercedes.
Alas, he had forgotten that the simian mind cannot discriminate,
And among the diagrams he had gathered for his
pupils were a few old Harvard plays
that he had neglected to eliminate.
Jericho bowed, 77 to 78, and Hushmouth is still
driving last year's Cadillac convertible,
But his spirits are unhurtable.
He had grown to love his hairy little charges,
and often when bowling with his fellow keglers
He proudly exclaims, Hush mah mouth, those monks
weren't no athaletes, but their scholastic
average was two points higher than the reg'lars!