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OK, now we're piling on. But it appears that this whole Chris Berman business is now inspiring ... poetry.

From Delicious Pundit, we have the first official Chris Berman slash poetry. What a terrifying thought.

I know noble accents
And lucid, inescapable rhythms;
But I know, too,
Who the Packers are about to take with their top draft pick.
Here, let me spoil it for you.

The inspiration is Wallace Stevens' Thirteen Ways Of Looking At A Blackbird, the title is "Thirteen Ways of Looking at Chris Berman" and the full poem is after the jump.

And the world is now ostensibly more insane.

(UPDATE: By the way, Wednesday is Berman's 51st birthday. You're with him, fifties!)

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THIRTEEN WAYS OF LOOKING AT CHRIS BERMAN
by The Delicious Pundit

I
Among twenty "J.T." snowy mountains,
The only thing moving
Was the eye of the blackbird.
You're with me, blackbird.

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II
I was of three minds,
Like a tree
In which there are three blackbirds.
You're with me, leftmost blackbird.

III
The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds.
Why would I go and do that?
What are you, stupid? That is so stupid.

IV
A man and a woman
Are one.
A man and a woman he sees in a hotel bar called, I
don't know, "Sensations" or something
Are one.

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V
I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of pickups
Or the beauty of the pickup leaving the hotel room.
"You're with me, leather"
Or just after.

VI
Icicles filled the long window
With barbaric glass.
Our top play of the week, though,
Involves the New York Football Giants.

VII
O thin men of Haddam,
Why do you imagine golden birds?
Do you not see how the blackbird
Is, or is about to be,
With me?
Don't be stupid.

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VIII
I know noble accents
And lucid, inescapable rhythms;
But I know, too,
Who the Packers are about to take with their top draft
pick.
Here, let me spoil it for you.

IX
When the blackbird flew out of sight,
He went back back back back back back back.
Actually, we all saw that he didn't.
But that's the catchphrase.

X
"At the sight of blackbirds
Flying in a green light,
Even the bawds of euphony
Would cry out sharply."
How do you like my Howard Cosell voice?
He was a fearless, crusading journalist.
Just like me!

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XI
He rode over Connecticut
In a glass coach.
Once, a fear pierced him,
Was Leather not with him?
She was.

XII
The river is moving.
The blackbird must be flying.
Sean Salisbury, you disagree.

XIII
It was evening all afternoon.
Chris Berman was talking
And he was going to talk.
The blackbird sat
in the cedar-limbs
Hating himself for watching.
I'm with you, blackbird.