anxiety's fists are hard as rain,
but its punches insist t' take a toll.
it doesn't like to strike the face,
it knows the chest area is the
part that lacked a vest for so long;
so it comes at me wit' a vicious flurry,
as accurate as an open Steph Curry,
an' as I hit the ground awkwardly,
the z-horde swarms immediately,
an' eats me up in a raw(y) fashion,
possession by possession like a
cohese west coast offense action.
touchdown, roarin' crowd reaction;
time for a 2-minute drill, no huddle,
everybody's aware of the struggle
of an instant classic's 4th quarter,
goal to go, couple inches farther,
play-action, naked bootleg it is,
#13 will run it in within the last tick,
let's bring it home, no losin' pick!
