Notorious B1G: Somebody’s gotta punt

If I got to choose a coast, I got to choose the Midwest. I play out there, so don’t go there.
But that don’t mean a fella can’t rest in the South.
See some nice plays in the South.
Drink some nice tea in the South, y’all fellas is a mess.
Thinking I’m gonna stop, giving Bama props. All I got is beef with those that fall asleep on me.
I’ll war o’attrition thee.
Case closed.

Somebody’s out to get me. Taking aim at how slow I am, how conservative I am, how out of shape I look. But I love the game. I’m in it for the game. Y’all focused on your aerial attack, you don’t worry about the war in the trenches. But I’m out there every day, taking the safety off my Schembechler, ready to leave you in a cloud of dust.

Things aren’t easy for The Notorious B1G.

I’m throwing outs,
aimin at,
these tight end maniacs,
droppin every pass,
what part the game is that?
Like we goin’ backwards. I call halfbacks and fullbacks, ya can’t touch me.
Try to rush me,
we slugs go slowly slowly.
Playcallin lovely,
Woody’s spirit above me,
or below me.

It used to be kids grew up appreciating the easy rhymes -- the ground and pound -- with lightning and thunder reigning on. We had our own style, we spoke softly and carried a big stick. But things done changed. Everybody’s coppin’ samples from some new crew, praising false idols, rushing and passing mixtapes. There’s no care for the little things anymore. Young MACs try and play me, years ago they wouldn’t even step to me.

The game got too fast. Everybody’s taking shots -- they like to cut me down, start rumors, question my credibility. But I’ll rise up. I’ve still got Urban sway. NCAA investigators want to slow my flow, but I’ll show them. Smooth special teams play, plenty of humor. It’s something more familiar. It’s sophistication on another level. You don’t know my pain. Rose Bowls seem sweet, but they cut like a knife.

B1G up, B1G up,
it’s a stick up, stick up,
and I’m battling field position if you hiccup.
Don’t let me fill my three-man rush in your backfield and punt east.
The opposite of peace,
sending Mark Dant’ a wreath.
You’re talking to the T.O.P. expert.
Stepping to the mic with mustard on my shirt.
Don’t be a jerk and get mad over our bend-don’t-break,
cuz when I take shots, the sticks is distant.

They try to hold me down, but if you come at me you better bring your sledgehammer. Legends, leaders I’m somewhere in between. Paranoia won’t keep me from bringing my style. Chip Kelly in the West, Nick Saban in the South, the world’s closing in.

B1G’s the biggest, man.
Rockin’ on like it’s ‘93,
Easy Bo P, Third Hoke and the rest of the Big Ten fam.
I don’t wanna see no crying at my Championship.