O Muse, sing of Boston's pride, in green arrayed,
With banners hoisted high, in glory displayed.
Eighteen bright championships the Celtics hold,
While Indiana waits, dreams stale and cold.
Last spring’s clash, a sweep in Eastern might,
Saw Celtics soaring, Pacers cast from sight.
In four swift games, the Pacers broke and fell,
Bound by Boston’s spell, in a green-cast knell.
How frail their defense, a mere paper wall,
Each player stumbles, each barrier falls.
From deep, Boston strikes with fury and fire,
With no exceptions to stand amid the mire.
The Pacers concede, each one out of tune,
And Boston’s three-point rain eclipses the moon.
Oh Tyrese Haliburton, their fleeting hope,
But bound by fragility, a perilous slope.
His health as fickle as autumn’s breath,
Leaving Indiana to ponder defeat and death.
And Larry Bird, a son of Hoosier land,
Yet his legacy rests in Boston’s hand.
The Hick from French Lick, in green did he soar,
A symbol of triumph on Boston’s floor.
Indiana may claim his birthplace and past,
But his heart beat for Boston, steadfast and vast.
And our Pritchard, young Payton, swift and spry,
Did bring down his namesake with a Pritchslap high.
Kevin, Indiana’s leader, met his match,
In Boston’s Pritchard, a lightning dispatch.
So here we stand, O Celtics, crowned and bold,
While Indiana languishes, their story old.
They chase what Boston has long since won,
In a race that ends with only one.
Let Boston’s might forever be king,
As Pacers fade, without crown or ring.
With banners hoisted high, in glory displayed.
Eighteen bright championships the Celtics hold,
While Indiana waits, dreams stale and cold.
Last spring’s clash, a sweep in Eastern might,
Saw Celtics soaring, Pacers cast from sight.
In four swift games, the Pacers broke and fell,
Bound by Boston’s spell, in a green-cast knell.
How frail their defense, a mere paper wall,
Each player stumbles, each barrier falls.
From deep, Boston strikes with fury and fire,
With no exceptions to stand amid the mire.
The Pacers concede, each one out of tune,
And Boston’s three-point rain eclipses the moon.
Oh Tyrese Haliburton, their fleeting hope,
But bound by fragility, a perilous slope.
His health as fickle as autumn’s breath,
Leaving Indiana to ponder defeat and death.
And Larry Bird, a son of Hoosier land,
Yet his legacy rests in Boston’s hand.
The Hick from French Lick, in green did he soar,
A symbol of triumph on Boston’s floor.
Indiana may claim his birthplace and past,
But his heart beat for Boston, steadfast and vast.
And our Pritchard, young Payton, swift and spry,
Did bring down his namesake with a Pritchslap high.
Kevin, Indiana’s leader, met his match,
In Boston’s Pritchard, a lightning dispatch.
So here we stand, O Celtics, crowned and bold,
While Indiana languishes, their story old.
They chase what Boston has long since won,
In a race that ends with only one.
Let Boston’s might forever be king,
As Pacers fade, without crown or ring.
