When Rice Krispies are marketed in Spain, they make these sounds: “Pim! Pum! Pam!” Thus, I was surprised come to the States and be exposed to “Snap! Crackle! Pop!” Onomatopoeia is not the international language I thought it was!
Cereals aside, my mates and I will perhaps make the playoffs this seasoning. If so, our ranking ensure matches with the Lakers, Mavericks, or Nuggets. Of these, my preference is for Los Angeles, and in anticipation of our battling them, and inspired by lyricists like the anonymous Rice Krispies writer and Lord Byron, I have penned a prescient poem for this possible event. Behold:
They came down like wolves upon the fold,
These cohorts gleaming in purple and gold;
The sheen of their jerseys like stars rippling on the sea,
Oh, injustice should Ron Artest wear them triumphantly!
Like the leaves of the forest in Portland so green,
Lakers fans in OUR pavilion —the Rose Garden— were seen.
And like the leaves of the forest when Autumn has blown,
Post-match, they lay withered, their team overthrown!
For Nic Batum spread his wings and rejected their blasts,
Andre Miller breathed in the faces of the foes he did pass;
And the eyes of the Lakers waxed dead and then chill!
And their hearts but once heaved, then forever grew still!
There lay Kobe Bryant, with his nostrils all wide,
And through them he blows the last breaths of his pride.
And the foam of his gasping lays white on the court,
While Pau Gasol seeks for his Spanish passport.
And there goes Lamar Odom, with spirits now crashin’,
Awaiting browbeatings from a nameless Kardashian!
And the Laker fans are all silent, as they stand all alone,
Their foam fingers unlifted, their noses unblown.
But the misguided blue and gold now grow loud in their wail,
As we Trail Blazers revel, and Adam Morrison we impale!
And mighty Greg Oden, who returned and smote like a sword,
Bows deeply at half-court: Our gigantic matador, ungored!
My apologies to Adam Morrison. The magical verse overwhelmed my senses at the end!