I know I have no class.
I know it’s rude and crude,
But when my team does stupid things,
I’m bound to come unglued.

To show dissatisfaction
with what the coaches do,
I pucker up my lips
and cut loose with a boo.

Yes, I’m the famous boobird.
I’m known by one and all.
My perch is in the bleachers.
You’d recognize my call.

I’ve no imagination
To coin a clever phrase
To let the coaches know
I’m not happy with their plays.

I may depress the players,
But frankly, I don’t care.
If they would simply win all games
Their feelings would be spared.

I pay my hard earned money
For the right to moan and groan,
For the right to whine and pine.
I’m a booer to the bone.

For booing is my past time.
It’s cheap as hobbies go.
I do it to the refs.
I do it to the foes.

But my team’s not exempt
From my critical disdain.
I’ll boo until the day I die.
Boobird is my name.

Tom Sylvest, Jr.
10-17-92