WHAT GAME WILL I WIN?

Continuing the Tupac-ain't-dead, here's another mixtape trend in beloved American literature, it was announced this week that a rediscovered manuscript from Theodor Seuss Geisel, better known as Dr. Seuss, would be published this summer.

It has been known for years that Seuss had unpublished works remaining, but what many people don't know is that, 3000 miles away from Seuss's California home, another author toiled in parallel.

The tireless scholars at Every Day Should Be Saturday have discovered one of his manuscripts.

"What Game Will I Win?", by Dr. 'Cuse

Forsooth, come young youth, and step in the booth

You'll hear a sad tale, a troubling truth

A sporting season you might find quite uncouth

The tale of the other sport played at Syracuse

No rim and no basket here will save our hinds

No Melos, no Waiters, no Jimmy Boeheims

It's a sport we're frankly not quite too skilled at

But come every August we cannot turn back

The ball is oblong and the season feels longer

The team treads in place while our conference grows stronger

Our talent base looks like a frozen dead wasteland

But if you're into that, we've got just the place, man

A schedule to be, it's dreadful to see

Twelve footballing games, twelve Saturday pains

I scratch at my chin, I ask myself when

A single of these games we'd find us a win

Les Miles's Tigers come raiding our Dome

How on earth did this happen, this odd home and heauxme?

A contest that we will most certainly lose

And when they leave town, they'll have drained all our booze

But wait! Oh, just great - we play at Doak-Campbell

Jameis may be gone but it's still bad just as well

The Seminoles' team, they're simply too fit!

By the third quarter we'll see their fourth unit

Perhaps but perhaps - we could lay a trap

A Clemsony Thing, a true Clemsoning!

They'd look far ahead, trip up on themselves

But deep down you know they'll do it somewhere else

North Carol-in' State, they weren't so great

Two years looking back, we'd beat the Wolfpack

But Doeren is fixin' what Tom O-B lacked

And the red dogs of Raleigh are clawing right back

You'd think we'd beat Pitt - they're frankly quite shit!

They're middling, they're muddling, they lost to the Zips

But even that thoroughly av-er-age team

Has beat us in ten of the last years thirteen

Losing at Louisville, Hoo-eyville, Tampa

Twelve games of twelve - each one there's a chance 'ta

Wake and the Chips, the Rhode Island Rams!

Every new week, we might shit our pants

Perhaps, and quite possibly, this just ain't our bag

The pigskinning schedule is not why we'll brag

Our roundball, our J-school, our grads will tell youse

Everything you've ne'er asked about Syracuse

We'll tell you it's special, the Yale of New York!

We'll beam and we'll boast and we'll bug you at work

And if you don't stop us, be certainly sure

Your intern from Babylon'll tell you some more

A lack of perspective's our prim'ry directive

Assure yourself rested, we think it's effective

If we can't beat the South in footballing true

We'll try to tell you about New York barbecue.