Proud remnant of Monday Night’s bash
When gridiron warriors had clashed;
Our boys in blue, gray, neon green
Against the Saints of New Orleans.
I’d bought a little Seahawks flag
From QFC on the main drag.
And thus armed with my impulse buy
I set my banner flying high.
The flag, it fitfully unfurls
And flaps as winter’s cold wind swirls
From where a green-eyed bird’s head glow’rs
Recall totemic ancient pow’rs.
The guidon on its plastic rod
Is tribute oft reserved for gods;
Like banners borne by knights of old
It marches bravely to the cold.
God bless the deaf’ning 12th Man noise!
And God bless Russell Wilson’s poise!
May Lynch’s runs be sweet perfume,
Watch over our Legion of Boom.
For there’s no war, but there is sport,
Our one true faith, our last resort
To raise like One a battle cry
And wish ill to the other side.
A day gone by, the flag is fixed,
Its base is firmly wedged betwixt
The window and its rubber seal
Where ice has frozen and congealed.
The power windows fail to budge;
A single inch it won’t begrudge.
The very Elements decreed
This standard fly above all week.
The ice now bonds me, so it seems,
To players, fans, and to the team.
It carries like Olympic flame
To face that Forty-Niners game.