Bracketology: by Bill Littlefield

From San Diego up to Maine,
Each biped with a half a brain
Will have their brackets to fill in...
For soon the tournaments begin.

I sit with pencil, poised to choose
Which teams will win and which will lose...
Which fav'rites will be favored by
The fates that, giggling from on high,
Will muck about with bookies' odds
To break the spirits of the clods
Who dabble in the bracket game:
That's all of us; we're all the same.

The sharpie, cousin to the kid
Who played for Duke, or almost did,
And knows the coach's neighbor's friend
Will say he's sure that in the end
His brackets — he, being no beginner --
Will show not only who's the winner
But also show, round after round,
Who's dead and who is glory-bound.

The clown who works across the hall
And don't know jack 'bout basketball
Will find the fiercest mascots, then,
Decide that it's no contest when
The bears take on the badgers; he
Has no use for the fighting tree.

The temp who's typing in the lobby --
Basketball's his girlfriend's hobby --
She's provided him with choices,
But his head is full of voices
Urging him to go instead
With teams whose uniforms are red...
Green is also nice, and blue.
In choosing, who knows what he'll do?

Down the hall, behind locked doors,
The boss, myopic, briskly pours
Herself a stiff one. She's a pal
Of television's Dick Vitale.
She calls him, whispers, "Look, I've got
To know which teams are really hot.
If some goof working for me here
Should win the pool I'd have to fear
They might forget that I'm the boss...
For should I suffer any loss
Of prestige at this choosing game,
Things here might never be the same."

So outside help as well as pluck,
And secret dreams, the dumbest luck...
They'll all play parts as play begins,
Producing, nation-wide, both grins
And sad expressions, moping, too...
And so, say I, good luck to you.