Run out all the clocks, cut off Street’s hail mary pass,
Prevent the Panthers from growling, stop maintaining the Lions’ grass,
Silence the Rally Girls and with muffled drum
Pack up the football equipment, let the mourners come.
Let boosters circle crying “Clear Eyes, Full Hearts” overhead
Yelling into the sky the message Friday Night Lights Is Dead,
Take down the crepe bows round the houses of the players we love,
Let the Friday Night faithful pray “Can’t Lose” to Him above.
It was my Alamo Freeze, my Landing Strip, my Dillon East and West,
The end of my working week and my Friday Night rest,
That coach, that quarterback, that rivalry, that theme song;
Riggins told me Texas would last for ever: He was wrong.
The lights are not needed now: put out every one;
Pack up Julie and Tami, Coach Taylor is done.
Lock away the field and return Vince to the ‘hood.
For nothing Tivoed now can ever come to any good.