Yes, I am a poet, or so I believe.
White and Old Gold
With a crisp sun reflecting off the grass
Warriors in white and gold gather in mass
The band strikes up its ballad to play
Spectators rise in anticipation of the fray
Entering to a din the opposition appears
Heartened with a chance calms the fears
But the throng sings the battle hymn and what is foretold
It hearkens to the contest and victory for old gold
Saturday in the South will always have a place
For young and old to gather in time and space
In those few hours when life is but the game
Memories and past are created all the same
We live for that time when leaves turn gold and red
It is what renews and wakes us from the dead