Super Bowl XL Poem.

Mark is a whore,
The Steelers suck more
Nobody buys into their bullshit lore

Fuck all the Steelers hype
I'd beat them with a pipe
Then bitchslap their coach if he decides to gripe

Don't forget about us
When you're praising the Bus
All we do is win baby, no fuss, no muss

We'll crush Porter's dream
With our cockerific team
Shoving it in his ass, making him scream

Your quarterback's young
His swan-song has sung
And his face looks like it's been slathered in dung

You defense don't scare me
Because our offense, you see
Will be raging down the field unstoppably

It's time to shut you down
Make you cry, make you frown
While they sleep in Pittsburgh, we'll be looting this town

When the Seahawks win, Mark just might
Decide he wants to put up a fight
But will probably just piss on my tail-light

Whatever the case may be
On Sunday we'll see
How well Steve handles a Seattle victory

Will he drink, will he cry?
Will he suddenly turn bi?
Or will he clutch his heart and peacefully die?

When cutting him open, it's true
You'll find out the hue
Of his blood squirts out not red but blue!