'Twas the night before Christmas, and at Valley Ranch
Jerry's ego was stirring, how maddening for fans;
The stock of the Cowboys climbed upwards like stairs,
even though Romo's shoulder wouldn't let him be there;
Jon Kitna to Witten was the connection instead,
over and over, then again; complete to tight end.
Even mamma in her 'kerchief, could recite the facts,
"Witten's the best going away, they can't see his back."
When out on the field there arose such a clatter,
Dez-Bryan-McCann gaining hidden yards that do matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Invoking visions of our backfield's own Flash and Dash.
Unstoppable forces between here and fro
unless, of course, the distance reads goal to go.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
Besides the double vision from four hours of beer?
Reindeer sleigh and old driver not lively nor spry,
mistaken for Hudson Houck and the offensive line.
New coach Jason Garrett would proudly proclaim,
"Make me coach for 2011 and things won't be the same!"
"Now Austin! Now Dez! Now Felix, Tashard!
On, Witten! On, Romo! But, please a new guard!
With Bradie! With Ratliff! With Lee no despair!
But give me a consistent threat opposite All World Ware!
A revamped secondary and a nose tackle that's tough,
So I can move Rat to End and he can focus on the rush!"
So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
They landed on Jerry's ego, Stephen was there too.
And then, in a twinkling, a revelation was brought.
Jerry could name BTB GM, now there is a thought!
As I drew in my head, the team turning around,
Multiple Lombardi's, adoration from crowds.
Michael Irvin dressed in fur, from his head to his foot,
Saying "Bloggingtheboys.com!?! Is that all it took?!"
A bundle of joy, he flung his mink on his back,
"A GM committee. Didn't think he had the sack."
His eyes -- how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
Jerry hasn't been this happy since that rafter dancer named Cherry.
The Hirsch Reserve Egg Nog drew his mouth like a bow,
Took one last sip, looked at Stephen and said "F it, let's go;
Those BTB guys strategies can't easily be beat."
Smoke from his Cuban encircled his head like a wreath;
He had a look on his face, of pure satisfaction.
Half smile and half scowl, intent on an action.
Five hours of beer, he resembled an elf,
And I laughed when I saw him, almost peed on myself;
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;
He mumbled some words as he went straight to his work,
Logged on twitter and tweeted, "DeSean Jackson's a frickin jerk"
And laying his finger aside of his bankroll,
He gave me a nod and jeered ‘My pockets are swoll!'
He sprang to his owner's box, to his team gave a whistle,
But they were in Arizona, blowing through that D like a tissue.
I heard him exclaim, as his Rolls drove out of sight,
"Happy Christmas BTB, and to all a good-night."