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'Twas the night before Draft Day, when all thro' the Jets Clubhouse
Not a scout was stirring, not even their louse;
The draft boards were hung by the bathroom with care,
In hopes that their annual draft day disaster would be there;
The agents were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of Woody’s dollars danc'd in their heads,
And Rex Ryan in his sweater vest, and Woody in his cap,
Had just settled their brains for the upcoming season’s nap —
When out on the field there arose such a clatter,
Rex sprang from the kitchen to see what was the matter.
Away to the window he flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters, and threw up the sash.
A Sanchez tatt on his wife’s breast of the new fallen snow,
Gave the luster of mid-season mediocrity to objects below;
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a sack-prone quarterback, and three tiny receivers,
With a little old running game, rather unlively and anything but quick,
I knew in a moment it must be the new draft pick.
