The Wages of Sin

Tom and I had a bet. I lost. Therefore, I must present a sonnet, in praise of the hated I-95 rival to my beloved, if utterly disappointing, Washington Redskins. Tom, it seems, in spite of all his saintly professions, prefers a team whose fans throw batteries (3rd item) and cheer for injuries to opponents. But that is his cross to bear, not mine, and I must praise the team, in keeping with my wager. I must also, soon enough, eat two cheesesteaks.

(The Bard, as always, is oh so helpful in such situations.)

My love is as a fever, longing still
For that which longer nurseth the disease,
Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill,
The uncertain sickly appetite to please.
My reason, the physician to my love,
Angry that his prescriptions are not kept,
Hath left me, and I desperate now approve
Desire is death, which physic did except.
Past cure I am, now reason is past care,
And frantic-mad with evermore unrest;
My thoughts and my discourse as madmen's are,
At random from the truth vainly express'd;
For I have sworn Eagles fair and so bright,
Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.