This isn't mine. I found it here. Click the link if you want to give the original writer his credit. It made me feel great in the offseason of hell, so I thought I'd post it here. Enjoy

The Hymnwright

'Dat Mondy’ Night, in the Dome

The mighty Pats were on the slate--

A statement set for us to make,

A fight ‘tween church and state.

Our hymn’s lines are penned in gold

Tearstained black among the text--

Four decades’ stanzas finished by

“Not this year, maybe next.”

‘Bout mir’cle plays but chip kicks missed,

'Bout how we'd give games away,

No matter how we’re s’posed do,

Despite what oddsmen say,

‘Bout bagheads, 'Aints, a hurricane,

Heartbreak, and grief received.

And a faithful people, far and near,

Who, daunted, still believed.

The Pats were, articles declared,

A dyn'sty near its peak.

Their history’s hands, clad in rings,

Held its feared mystique.

And that, in any circumstance,

They would always come to play.

“The Patriots find ways to win”

Despite what oddsmen say--

Brady, Belechick and Moss,

All apt for Halls of Fame,

Always tip the scales of luck

Toward a Boston-feted game.

We'd waited for 'dat Mondy' Night

To show we had the stuff,

To turn our meek belief to fact,

We've suffered long enough.

The hymnwright’s pen lifted then

From his golden song of woe

Because on that Sundy' prior,

We had soared to 10-0.

Though, still a team with no respect

To match our wins and pride,

If we lost: doubt would linger on

A win: truth verified.

The oddsmen said we were the best

Most else, “Pats win the day!”

So we filled the Dome all dressed in black

And sang the “Who Dat say!”

And through the night, TDs were launched,

Payton called, by hand of Drew,

To Dev’ry, Colston, Saint Pierre,

Meachem and Dinkins--Who?

With pressure swift and coverage tight,

We stuffed each Brady toss,

And just one week off the street,

McKenzie shut down Moss.

While the Benson Boogie

Crowned our decisive win,

The hymnwright carried forth his verse

With an artful Saintly grin

Then, by faith shone through these years,

Williams’ D, and Breesy flight,

The Pats, we beat convincingly.

The nation saw ‘dat Mondy’ Night.

And Tuesdy's talk, at long last,

Will say that we're the best.

The doubt was ground into the turf

As we passed our era's test.

We believe this fate the work

Of a pow'r above our own

In whose lofty, gilded fields

Success's seeds are sown.

From those, there bloomed a fleur-de-lis

For each play 'dat Mondy' night

To cover ov'r the highest hill

With a Superbowl in sight.

We hoped to live to see this day

Though some of us are gone

Or want to be there in the Dome

But live hither and yon,

Yet be we squirrel or be we man,

There in spirit or in flesh,

We're set to march down Rue Bourbon,

In our heels and party dress.

At that, he chuckled to himself,

Looked 'round, then hap'ly sighed.

In his words, the hymnwright deem'd,

He was truly satisfied.

Then from his lilycover'd height

He paused his pen again

To wisely wait upon the next

Who Dat Day in Lou'sian'.