(As if he ever could . . . )
He becomes an armchair quarterback,
The best in his neighborhood.
He joins a fantasy football league
And believes he's part of the team,
He wears a superstar's jersey
And his friends hold him in high esteem.
But in spite of his best efforts
He's not an athlete at all,
The only game he's winning at
Is defeating cholesterol.
He watches the Super Bowl, of course,
But he's not playing the game,
In spite of the fact he likes to believe
The coach might be calling his name.
The only thing the armchair guy
Can actually claim to control
Is the number of meatballs on his fork
And his helpings of casserole.
He may feel empowered in his chair
Eating a bag of nacho chips
But the only influence he holds
Is the cheese dip on his lips.
At the end of the game he may feel bold
To hoist Lombardi's heft
But the only weight he's hoisting
Are the hot wings that are left.
He's not a champion (or a chump)
He's just an armchair soul
Who's lived vicariously through
The food in his Super Bowl.
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