Dear Derek Dooley,
We had some laughs. Your pants were fun. Your hip was broken, and that wasn't good, but the way you just kept hanging out not knowing it was broken, but that you thought it was acting up because of the weather or you were sleeping on it weird was kind of cute. Your wife was perfect in the SEC. You always had that 'what the hell am I doing' face, which I appreciate. It's honest and refreshing.
But it's time to say goodbye. Every traveler must get back on the road, long nights, impossible odds, other Styx lyrics, etc.
Here, I wrote you a poem. Okay, I stole it from Lord Byron, but he's dead, so he won't mind.
So, we'll go no more a Vol-ing
So late into the fight,
Though the crutch be still as supporting,
And the pants be still as bright.
For the coach outwears his welcome,
And the calls outwear logic,
And Rocky Top must pause to breathe,
And Smokey itself have rest.
Though Saturday was made for football,
And weekdays return too soon,
Yet we'll go no more a Vol-ing
By the light of the Tennessee moon.
Farewell, old friend.
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