Leaves Of Grass: The Ballad of Le’Veon Bell – On His Return



A Canadian man-child of indeterminate age, he stays young by selling alcohol at sporting events and yelling at the patrons he serves. Their rage nourishes his soul, and their tips pay for his numerous trips to various sporting events.

The expected return of Le’Veon Bell this week is a testament to the nature of the modern game, and the lengths to which players have to go to ensure their post-playing days financial & physical viability. Returning during a scheduled bye not only guarantees him no contact for another week, it makes sure he collects a cheque. Much like Walt Whitman was initially derided for his collection of poems, Le’Veon Bell has been chastised by fans & management for the stance he has taken.

However, rather than continue to voice opinions on social media, he has taken the opportunity to put his energies into reworking the inspirational poetry of his hero, Walt Whitman.


It surely is a better use of his time than sniping at teammates like Maurkice Pouncey, who as we all know comes from the Aaron Hernandez “DIE MOTHERFUCKER DIE!” school of settling interpersonal disagreements.

Will time look as favourably on his decisions as Whitman’s? Only time will tell. But it does make for compelling reading, doesn’t it Hank?

Today, he shows us how he’s anticipating his return – and the rationale that he’s used to justify the stance he has taken, and how he hopes it will reward he and his team going forward.

Time to Come

O, Injury! A constant lingering fear  

Hangs round thee, and the future state;

Unless you’ve played a down or two, you can’t

Point out I’m late.


This brain, which now throbs betwixt

Swelling hope and CTE;

This heart, which some have questioned,

Returns, but for a fee —


The curious fans of human mould,  

Who come and watch me play,

And sacrifice my wondrous form,

I wish would go away.


The coursing blood will stop its flow;  

Thank God he wears a cup; THE BEN

Said, “One guy doesn’t make or break you”

Which isn’t very Zen.


My career is short; the turf will close   

O’er broken limbs, torn ACL;

But where, O, Rooney, where shall be

The pay for Le’Veon Bell?


Will the check go through? I play so hard

I feel my body torn;

Then, when the yards per carry drop,

Will then the fanbase mourn?


O, powerless is the franchise tag  

To force me on the field;

This would not be a problem, had

Only I just kneeled.

Song of Myself

I celebrate myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me does not belong to you.

I loafed at home and watched TV,
I feel no guilt at my ease observing a terrible start to a season.

My body, every atom of my blood, played upon this soil, this air,
Born here of parents conceived in Camaros from parents the same, and their parents in Gremlins,
I, now twenty-six years old in perfect health again,
Hoping to play till retirement.

I vowed I would not start the season,
People believed it a bluff, but they ignored the determination of my spirit,
You may think me good or bad, but I remind you all at every opportunity,
Payment for services rendered is required.

One’s-Self I Sing

One’s-self I sing, a simple separate person,  
Who asked one thing: Compensation, no tag Franchise.

Of physiology from top to toe I sing,
Not safer rules nor safer equipment is equal to high pay, I say
my Unbroken body is worthier far,
Pay me what I’m fucking worth, I sing.

This game immense in passion, pulse, and power,
Requires I be paid my worth,
A Long Term Deal, I sing.

Powerful, powerful stuff.

You can really tell he’s been trying to channel his energies into his words and not any animus. Those words reveal a player who not only believes in himself and his talents, but who is looking to convert those talents into a monetary gain he believes he is rightfully owed by virtue of his prior efforts on behalf of the team. His laments at those efforts not being contractually recognized is what has driven him to his current state, and why his words have such deeper meaning.

In that light, tomorrow we examine his words on the current bane of his football experience, the Franchise Tag.

A Canadian man-child of indeterminate age, he stays young by selling alcohol at sporting events and yelling at the patrons he serves. Their rage nourishes his soul, and their tips pay for his numerous trips to various sporting events.
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Your “I Scream, You Scream….Wait, WHY ARE WE SCREAMING????” Friday Evening Open Thread – [DOOR FLIES OPEN]

[…] usual, BeerGuyRob  anchored many of the week’s open threads.  But he also did this, and this, and this, and this, and […]

Don T

“Pay me what I’m fucking worth, I sing.”

Senor Weaselo

I expected him to contradict himself and contain multitudes. But maybe that’s the multitudes!

Spanky Datass
Spanky Datass

This was fun. I will read it again later after supper and Bourble.

Low Commander of the Super Soldiers

Not to be outdone, a former NFL player has compiled his own book of poems. See if you can guess who!

Whose frog is that? I do not know.
Its owner is quite confused though.
Full of questions like a vivid trainbow,
I watch it laugh. I cry WHAT IS THIS PLACE?.

He gives his frog a shake,
And stares until his brain aches.
The only other sound’s the break,
Of shoulders to helmets and bags of xylophones

The frog is feathered, PURPLE MONKEY DISHWASHER and deep,
But he has memories to keep,
After medications and lots of sleep.
Sweet dreams come to WHERE IS THE NURSE?.

He is unstrapped from his loud bed,
With thoughts of charades in his head,
He eats his quilt with lots of bread.
Ready for the day I AM BATMAN



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Downfield Matriculator
Downfield Matriculator

Bell’s poetic inspiration from Whitman is much less dark than the literary influence of Hemingway on Aaron Hernandez:

For Sale. Twin Bedsheets. Never slept-in.


“Fucking n*****!!!! Economic Anxiety is OWAH THING!”

-NFL fans


Ricky Williams is enjoying this very much as he contemplates it in solitude from his hermitage on Walden Pond.


This is delightful.