Limerick Roasts

Paw-verty Program

Truly, not all dogs go to heaven
Some remain in New Haven with
wins stuck at seven
Old Eli falls short
From the playoff cohort
And plays dead at Trump’s call and
beckon

Played in a bowl with no service
Against a team with one purpose
To one day serve fries,
And finally surmise:
Your degree is completely worthless.

Come Saturday, you’ll be in disbelief
Our team will give you lots of grief
We’ll win The Game
And the Bulldogs won’t be tame
Without your beloved police chief

With a 53-yard kick from Corr,
We have more than you Bulldogs in
store,
You say you bleed blue,
But your fans, they’ll “boo,”
Are we really expecting more?

Our offense has you in a trance,
Up and down the field they prance,
New Haven, No Haven
Your team needs some savin’
Cause your defense don’t stand a
chance

The Big Green are hardly a team,
Yet they beat you with glory and
gleam,
Your offense was shot,
Your players, not hot,
And they ran away all out of steam

10,000 men want victory
And this year Craig has no injury
He earns accolades
Sets records in spades
Feeding his first class artillery

Our team will remain undefeated
Your will be finished, depleted
The bid will be ours
You’ll give us our flowers
And watch us on the TV, seated.

All Bark, All Bite, All Bulldogs.

There once was a team dressed in red,
Still living off glories long dead.
But now they must face,
Our blue in this place —
Where Bulldogs make legends instead.

Pitsenberger’s running with fire,
A blur every coach must admire.
He’ll spin, cut, and dart,
Leave you clutching your heart,
As your linebackers crumble, perspire.

And Brown—try to defend!
You’ll chase him from end zone to end.
He’ll leap, twist, and burn,
Make your corners all learn,
That Yale speed is your certain end.

Our defense? Pure chaos and might,
Stacking sacks, picking passes mid-flight.
When Kamara drops deep,
Your QB won’t sleep —
He’s picking off dreams left and right.

The Bowl will be roaring in blue,
Twice your crowd, maybe more—quite a view.
When the echoes resound,
You’ll feel hometown pound,
And wonder what else you could do.

Your tailgates can’t handle the scene,
While ours run like films, crisp and clean.
The night before’s wild,
Each Bulldog beguiled,
By parties that put yours to shame, mean.

So Harvard, come meet your demise,
Your “prestige” can’t mask the disguise.
We’ll run, catch, and sack,
Till you can’t come back —
And leave you in tears, no surprise.