The Devil walked into the Golden Bull on a rainy Oakland night,
While the lost souls sat and nursed their CTE in the sickly neon light.
And the Devil, he looked around the room at the broken hopes and dreams,
He says, “Is there one among you scum who’ll coach my sorry team?

Dennis pulls his visor down, pretending not to hear.
And Art, well he just looks away and takes another sip of beer.
Norv, he says “Not me, no way, I’m happy to just lurk.”
And kept scribbling on a napkin, some play he was sure would work.

And Lane just kept whisperin’ low to the snuff queen who clutched at his sleeve.
And somebody coughed — and the Devil scoffed — and turned on his heel to leave.
“Hold on,” says a voice from the back of the room. “‘fore you walk out that door.
If you want a guy who likes rollin’ the dice, well, I’ve taken some chances before.”

And there stood old Hue Jackson, he’d been on that sideline for years,
Designin’ all of them crazy plays that led to nothing but ACL tears,
He’d called for fake field goals a thousand times, he ate triple options for lunch
A single receiver was never enough, he always demanded a bunch.

“I know you,” says Hue Jackson, “from a sewage-infested place,
But you always spoke in a different voice and you had open sores on your face.
While me, I’ve been paying my dues in this league and I think it’s finally my turn
To set this team on fire with my schemes cause these engines are ready to burn.”

“Well, then, put on this windbreaker, it gets cold up here by the Bay,
And take this clipboard in your luckless hands and get ready to call some plays.
You get one year – and you bet your rear – and if you make the playoffs you win,
All the respect of the ESPN crew and a year’s worth of draft picks to spend.
But if you’re home in January, then kiss your ass goodbye,
And donate your brain to concussion research, cause your goddamn soul is mine!”

“Playoffs?” says Hue Jackson. “Hell, I’ve had harder quotas to meet.
I kept Ochocinco under control and I made Flacco look elite.
So gimme the reins, you shit-for-brains, and let it all unwind.
The Raiders haven’t turned the corner yet, but this might be the time.”

Then Hue Jackson looks at the roster, and says “this team, it kind of sucks.”
“They do, they do,” the Devil says, “and the fans are braindead fucks.”
And Hue Jackson looks at the incoming rookie kids that don’t fill a single need.
“I’m sorry,” says the Devil, “but they’re drafted based on speed.”

“Well, shit,” says old Hue Jackson. “Now, I really don’t mean to sass,
But I could never see clear to stake my career on Jason Campbell’s journeyman ass
“Well, then, walk off,” says the Devil. “Nobody’s tied you down.”
“Walk off where?” says Hue Jackson. “They’re the only team in town.

But I just wanna say ‘fore I make my play, that if I can’t break this sorry team’s curse,
You’ll make me a promise and hold yourself to it that the next guy will do even worse.”
The Devil he nods, and the team hits the sod, and it looks like they might have a chance.
But they rack up four losses in their final five games and miss out on a shot at the dance.

“Well, damnit,” says Hue Jackson, “I thought I could get it done.
But these bums don’t even know how to block, or tackle, catch, or run.”
“I like how you threw everyone under the bus,” says the Devil, “betrayal’s a treat.
It’s one of my favorite sins to induce, potatoes to murder and rape’s meat.”

“Enough! Let’s get this damned show on the road,” says Hue, “take me on down below.
I’ve buried this team and I’ve made the fans scream bloody murder, I’m ready to go.”
And the Devil laughed and said “To hell? You thought I was bringing you down?”
I’ve got a much different torture for you – I’m sending you to the Browns!”

—

Part 2