pIn the fields of Cincinnati, under lights that blaze and burn, Stands a quarterback named Burrow, with each snap, a twist and turn. Clad in stripes, the Tiger leader, eyes alight with fiery zest, Yet his bones recall the pressures of a line too oft distressed.Each drop back bears a story, of a blitz he can’t evade, As defenders crash like waves upon a rocky barricade. Though his arm can sling with beauty, trace a spiral through the air, Too often foes anticipate, with interceptions laid as snares.Pain is etched upon his visage, yet resolve within his eye, For despite the bruises blooming, his spirit won’t comply. With a courage born of battles, in the grass he’s laid to rest, But rises ever stronger, though his body protests.For interceptions are but shadows in the gleaming light of day, And each one teaches wisdom — a price he’s willing to pay. Though the turf may claim his vigor, and the picks may mar his game, Joe Burrow fights with valor, earning reverence and fame.p
