A Tiger Poem

In an attempt to be less negative, here geauxs...

The grass is freshly cut,
The paint is on the ground
The crowds they flock to their spot
With music all around.

The smells of smoke and whiskey
The smell of soured beer,
Sounds of song and raucousness
It's a party atmosphere.

And all they trek to that spot,
Where gray concrete surrounds,
A field of grass and magic,
Four goal posts in the ground.

The crowds they amble to their spot
And through the gates descend,
And up and up and round and round
Their journey nears the end.

At last the archway and the ramp,
Enter in to see the Eye
The energy of this hallowed ground
Your troubles wain for nigh

There is no place be Earth or time,
You'd rather be than here
You've waited long this Summer
To start this brand new year.

And as you find your seat
To view the baited's pain,
You see a cloud above you,
Fear not, it never rains!