C for catching, a skill no Brown can do;
L for the 12 losses we'll surely accrue.
E for endzone, a place we'll never go;
V for the velocity not on a McCoy throw.
E for everywhere, our spots with holes,
L for the let down of more field goals.
A for the abysmal state of our LBs
N for the negative wind chill that makes my ass freeze.
D for the drinking problems we have concealed,
B for the bottles we threw on the field.
R for the redzone, which allegedly exists,
O for our offense, whose ineptness persists.
W for wide-outs, of which we have none,
N for my noose, or perhaps my gun.
And S is for Sunday: the day of the week I'll get out of bed, put on a my Browns' jersey, and drink my way through 60 minutes of watching a team whose offense has at most a total of one NFL-caliber receiver in the whole lot, a rookie quarterback old enough to have Alzheimer's disease, an offensive line that possesses absolutely no right side, and a running back tandem that is averaging 1 knee surgery for every 2.5 games played; and a defense that will not only always be on the field but that has an injury ravaged line, a linebacker corps that wouldn't be able to make the cut at any of the DIII schools in the area, an already thin secondary, and that will have to go up against the likes of Vick, Dalton (x2), Fitzpatrick, Eli, Luck, Rivers, Flacco (x2), Romo, Roethlisberger (x2), Palmer, Cassell, Griffin, and Peyton. Seriously. 0 and 16 isn't out of the question.