‘Twas the nightmare before
Thanksgiving, when all through Philadelphia
Not a Birdsfan was happy, not even Jeffy Lurie; 

The standings were close with the Cowboys in tow, 

In hopes that The Giants and Redskins would soon be below; 

The Negadelphians were nestled all snug in their beds; 

While visions of New head coaches danced in their heads; 

And my wife non existent, and I in my Eagles knit cap, 

Couldnt fucking sleep because of all this negadelphia crap, 

When out on the lawn there arose such a quacker, 

I sprang from my bed to see what was this quacker. 

Away to the window I flew like a sproles, 

Tore open the shutters and threw up djacks gang signs. 

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen leaves, 

Gave an allure of bad sports talk midday shows, 

When what to my wondering eyes did appear, 

But Charles Kelly and remnants of culture, 

With play calling so lively and quick, 

I knew in an instance why our offense was sick. 

More rapid than eagles his play calling came, 

And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name: 

“Now, Bradford! now, Cooper! now Sproles and Maxwell! 

On, Ertz! on, Celek! on, Murray and Lane Johnson! 

To the destination Detroit! 

Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!” 

Now I’m not going to tell you that this tale ends well,

You’ll have to root for your birds even if you want Kelly to go to hell.  

A playoff birth is not so absurd,

But Charles Kelly Can’t coach like a turd. 

HAPPY THANKSGIVING EAGLES NATION LET’S Go Birds!