Red zone, pay dirt, honeycomb haven,
where the paradise waits
and the sun doth shine,
but where sentries are stationed
with spears and arrows.
 
Between the two twenty yard lines
lie flat meadows and open roads,
where the pedal meets the metal
and the game comes easy.
Football is a glide along the silky grass with
hands reaching out and pushing you along.
The life is exuberant and the way is fun.
The end zone is an oasis waiting for you.
It calls you to its bosom in a kindly voice,
“My paradise is thy paradise to come and take.
Prepare thy journey in an appropriate manner.
If you succeed, you shall inherit all the riches.”
 
At full speed ahead, you breeze along.
You smile and you take in all the beauty.
The hills are nature’s emerald hearts
and the rivers are the effervescent vessels.
 
You reach the red zone at the twenty yard line
from all your careful planning and enthusiasm.
The paradise is not so easy for the taking,
like a beautiful rose with thorns lurking outside.
It has sentries guarding and spears readied,
and armies fighting to defend their land.
You find your arsenals within yourselves,
your metal hearts, your weapons, and your plans.
You smash your heads against their lines.
You repeat your assaults until you can no more.
Your armies are the sheep
And theirs are the wolves.
You give up, go home, and lick your wounds.
The paradise becomes the forbidden paradise.
You get the red zone blues from your futility,
but you love the game and try again next time.

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