The Gipper's Run

The air was cold

the mist was low,

the stage was set 

for battle

T'was the game o' the year,

Rockne tugged his ear

he had trained his men 

like cattle.

"We're bound to be whipped 

without the Gipp!"

Shouted Rockne up

and down.

"We're gonna get skunked

ya holy punk!

You're gonna make us out

a clown!"

"But as the priest I say

the Gipp can't play,

he's been bustin' all

the rules:

shootin' pool,

cuttin' school and

tippin' up the booze!"

The Knute said "O.K.

you'll mind your way

when the loss is weighin'

on you!"

So the game commenced

with Gipp on the bench,

as Army was crackin' 

the whip.

The crowd was bad,

they were mighty mad,

they were screamin' for

the Gipp.

Saint Mary's girls jeered,

their boys were steered,

the opponents had

a gorge

Knute paced the line

as he looked behind,

Father Pat was talkin'

to George.

"I've had you benched

in the Lord's defense

but they're spoilin' our

fair name.

I'll swallow me pride

and I'll hide me eyes

if you'll win it for

Notre Dame."

George gulped water

said "Thank you Father,

I'll do the best

I can."

He snugged up his cleats

and leaped to his feet

that stirred arisin' from

the stands.

They had all gone crazy,

their brains went hazy,

their chantin' wouldn't

yield.

"Hooray! Hooray!

for Notre Dame,

ol' Gipper's on the

field."

Now George felt proud

from that roarin' crowd

they were yellin' out

his name.

His adrenalin flowed

like a waterfall goes,

"I'll win it for

Notre Dame."

He lowered his head

that was tough as lead

as he smashed right through

the line.

How the score did go

and the blood did flow

as Gipp scored the 

second time.

He stepped like a rhyme

and cut on a dime

leavin' Army in

the mud.

And he ran one back

for a hundred at that!

Goin' in with a gruelin'

thud.

He had scored one more 

but the clock was poor

and Army was still

ahead.

They ran the show,

they wouldn't throw,

West Point was playin'

dead.

As the ball was hiked

just like a spike

George drove with a

piercing pain.

Their center was down,

the quarterback thrown,

and Gipp had the ball 

again.

With hands of thieves 

and piston knees

he dazzled that standing

mob.

He leaned to the right

and cut like a kite

as the hearts of the fans

did throb.

with wizard feet

his dynamite fleet

sped him by the boys

in grey.

For the first time in years.

the Knute was in tears

as he watched the

great display.

The clock read ":o4"

he had to score to win the game

by two.

He formed his play

and galloped away

as only he could

do.

But the Army boys

they didn't toy;

They were ranked at

number one.

They chased ol' George

like a swine eats porridge,

but wow how the Gipper

run!

He had fifty-four 

to make the score

the Army was pressin'

hard.

With sweat filled eyes

and bruised up thighs

he was feelin' every

yard.

The knute knew well

as sure as hell,

that Gipp could win it

by two.

Like a horse with wings

the Gipper did things

that others couldn't

do.

Now their fastest back

give George a crack

but the champion

didn't fall.

He staggered a bit;

'twas blood that he spit,

but he hung on to

the ball.

Now Army had speed,

they were fast indeed;

they ganged him on the

one.

So 'twasn't just one

that George had on

at the blastin' of the 

gun.

With a groaning lunge

he made a plunge

for the yard that seemed

a mile.

He thought he was dead

but he cleared his head,

though it took him a

fair little while.

He glared at the board

that recorded the score,

after the sound of the

gun.

It clocked West Point

with twenty-nine points,

but the Gipper had scored

thirty-one.

--Pete Rheaume