To the tune of "Casey at the Bat"
The outlook wasn't brilliant for the Dallas offense that day,
The score stood seventeen to fourteen with two minutes left to play,
And when Johnson dropped an errant pass, and Glenn dropped one, too,
Quincy's fans cried "Conspiracy!", while his critics could do naught but boo,
The crowd steadily dwindled, but those who remained,
Prayed for a miracle, a freak thunderstorm with rain,
They thought, "If only Troy or Roger were here to take control,"
They had no faith in the offense with Quincy running the show,
But Troy was in Foxboro, watching the Pats play in the snow,
Roger was running his business and watching his money grow,
So upon the remaining crowd, the pall of despair descended,
For there seemed little chance of scoring so long as the other team defended,
But Jones broke a long run, and the crowd gave a sigh,
Then Keyshawn snagged an out, though it was thrown a little high,
And when the offense huddled, and the refs had spotted the ball,
The Cowboys were past the fifty, to the amazement of all,
Then from the remaining partisans, there rose tumultous cheers,
It rumbled through Texas Stadium, and roared in Quincy's ears,
It made his spirit soar, and it made his heart pound,
He took his place among the other greats that had also heard this sound,
Now his faced looked calm, and as he bent to take the snap,
He saw the cornerbacks playing tight, and tackles playing the gap,
He saw the linebackers playing man under, and the safeties in cover two,
He saw Glenn in the slot, and he knew what he had to do,
Quincy gave a hard count, and the center snapped on three,
A quick playaction to Jones, and Glenn was running free,
Quincy wound his mighty arm and let the football fly,
It sailed over Glenn's head, about five feet too high,
"Kill him! Kill Terry Glenn," cried Quincy's loyal fan base,
And they likely would have killed him but for the look on Quincy's face,
With a quick pat to his own chest and a friendly slap to Glenn's head,
Quincy took the blame even though his critics were seeing red,
With a deprecating smile of humility, Quincy's visage beamed,
And his fans knew he was not at fault, but had taken one for the team,
And as he stepped back under center, with Keyshawn to his right,
His fans remained certain that there would be a victory party that night,
The center hiked the ball, and Quincy dropped back,
Keyshawn split the seam, and exploded through the crack,
He was streaking down the field, the corner was far behind,
But Quincy dumped it in the flat to Anderson, the only receiver he could find,
"Coslet!" screeched Quincy's loyal fans, too angered to clearly see,
That Mo was in the booth because Coslet was fired in Oh-Three,
But Quincy raised his hands for quiet, and his fans applauded his aplomb,
They knew that on third and nine, Quincy would finally launch a bomb,
Quincy lined up in the shotgun, with Glenn and Johnson split wide,
Witten was lined up on Quincy's left, and Jones was at his side,
The ball was snapped on a silent count as soon as the ref blew his whistle,
Glenn and Johnson streaked downfield, and Quincy launched a missile,
Oh, somewhere in the state of Texas, there must be a happy crowd,
Somewhere fans are cheering, somewhere they are proud,
Somewhere a team has a victory, and well-earned accolades are accepted,
But that somewhere isn't Dallas, because Quincy's pass was intercepted.
