Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, dona eis requiem sempiternam.
Oh, dear David, cut once again by a team without an offensive line to speak of,
The gargantuans could not protect you — the running game only doomed you.
You had a top notch receiver, double covered at all times.
Hitting the ground too frequently, throwing the ball too few.
It was the same thing that doomed you in Texas,
After your time with the Mustache Riders of Pat Hill.
On your back more often than your average street-walker
As D-linemen punished you on Sundays at will.
But maybe, just some of the fault lies in your hands
Or the accessories you decided to wield.
The football gods do not take kindly to
Wearing white gloves in order to throw downfield.*
Though we know you are a devout Christian,
Sadly, your career won’t see a resurrection.
But before you head all the way home back to Fresno,
Jon Gruden’s looking for another addition to his collection.
Hosanna in excelsis.
(*Kurt Warner had the right idea by wearing black ones.)