It’s the week before the Super Bowl,
We players are meeting the press
Who attempt to ask clever questions,
But it’s all journalistic excess.

They force us to converse with the media.
I’m not really sure why that’s so,
But I will smile sweetly and shun them completely
And not say things they don’t need to know.

La la la de de da
La la de de da da da

“Give us some replies, Mr. Marshawn Lynch;
Is there more on your mind
Than just putting up with our frivolity
To make sure that you don’t get fined.”

Now Tom at the mike is a pretty boy
Who comes when his trophy wife calls.
And like his receivers, she is a believer
That he does his best work with small balls.

He says, “Bill, your grey hoodie is killing me.
Why can’t you show a little more flair?
Well, I’m sure that the team would respect you more
If you had Katy Perry-blue hair.”

Oh La la la de de da
La la de de da da da

Now Bill is the Patriot patriarch
Who doesn’t time for a wife
And though he’s a world-beater, he’s also a cheater,
And probably will be for life.

And the experts are all making predictions
And telling tales about folks they’ve known;
And I’m laughing at their silly opinions,
Which is better than sharing my own.

“Regale all of us, Mr. Running Back;
Regale us without cease
Since Sports Center’s in need of material,
And you make our ratings increase.”

As YouTube highlights get people’s attention,
The commissioner gives me a frown,
For he knows it’s my crotch that they coming to watch
But I still think he’s the big clown.

And the Super Bowl itself will be ecstasy,
But Media Day seems like a year,
So please go to the room with the Legion of Boom,
And don’t ask me what I am doing here.

Oh La la la de de da
La la de de da da da

“Entertain us all, Number Twenty Four;
Entertain with your wit.
Well, we’re all in the hunt for celebrity
And you are the one who is it!”