Aye! Listen you fellows to a story most true,

Of a gun-slinging QB that donned black and blue.

He arrived with great promise from the War Eagle town,

A speedy behemoth that wouldn't go down.

Stiff-arming linemen and backers and backs,

Jerry just couldn't help but get tight in the slacks.

[quick sidebar: I'm aware that Jerry Richardson is not capable of achieving erection anymore, and hasn't been since the 1981 Hardee's incident that claimed his genitalia]

Six and ten in '11, seven 'n nine in ought 12,

At 12-4, the fans hollered, "Hey! We don't hate ourselves!".

But a force had been brewing the last couple years,

A force that was evil and drank puppy tears.

They called it the Gettletroll, a grotesque GM,

Who let Smitty walk, and also Ted Ginn.

To guard Cam? A pack of contemptible boobs,

Other teams' castoffs and obvious newbs.

The same fans that once praised Cam now jeered as They lost,

Attacked his demeanor, said Cam wasn't boss.

One wonders, while naked, 'bout the future of Cam,

And why he would stay in this weaponless land.

Such talent! Such size! It just can't go to waste!,

But he's not getting younger; he'd better make haste.

The Jets need a QB; the Buccaneers, too,

But the thing may come down to that ol' greenish hue.

A big-market man in a small-market town,

Only sweet, sweet Lady Time knows how it all will go down.