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Greg Davis: Iowa Offensive Coordinator, Spoken Word Poet

<em>We miss you like the deserts miss the rain.  </em>
We miss you like the deserts miss the rain.

Greg Davis approaches the podium in Iowa City. And he has a few things to say:

What's up Iowa City?

Huh. Huh. Yeah. It's about to happen, y'all.

Who wants to hear some truth up in here?


(pulls hoody over head and begins gesticulating wildly)

Horizontal Corn!

Rows of yellow-green...(whispers) soldiers.

Wake up and smell the Folgers.

Horizontal. You know. SIDE. WAYS.

Like my homi-cide ways.

Bubble screen plays.

Leave that ass in a daze.

Unless your DC watches film. Which seems patently unfair.

Xi'an terra cotta photosynthetic reliants.

My golf hat sideways defiance.

I just dropped China and science.

Call me stalker, cuz these fibers do violence.

Gold and black maize lay siege to your colon.

Like Russia on Poland.

I still fastball like Nolan.

Not Richardson, punk.

I ain't strollin'.

This is no full court press.

But I digress...

My 40 minutes of hell.

Can't be digest.

Horizontal Corn!

Packing pounds on that ass. Roll up those jean shorts, girl.

No my grow ain't no silo.

Got that corn-fed ass. Kind I like.

What's your 40 time, fructose?

No, I mean laterally.


Good people of the land.

But Tom Arnold? Damn!

Like Canadians, but duller.

But I'll still pull Jeff Fuller.

Texas pipeline like Laird.

So best be prepared.

Yeah, Hamilton. Do you not surf?

Midwest my new turf.

I throw Spalding. Your D's nerf.

Iowa City is where I get it back.

Home of old gold and the bliggity black.

Yeah, Austin went wrong.

Home of the bong. Lance Arm-strong. Barton Springs thong. Live music song. BBQ tong.

Lots of words end with -ong.

And that make me happy.

But not Texas.

Hot as fuck; ungrateful; crappy.

How did I stray from my pimp OC game?

Maybe it was me, maybe Coach Roscoe P Coletrain.

With his hustle. Recruiting bustle.

Yapping 'bout running like a goddamn Jack Russell.

Not one of us familiar with the writings of Paul Fussell.

Mack backslapping while I was...clockpunching.

Mack meeting alums while I was...snackin' dum-dums.

Mack livin' the dream while...I'm up craftin' schemes.

Sinking in complacency like a Roman trireme.

Perfect the 3 yard hitch.

Canned. Goddamn!

Now - ain't life a bitch?

He Marcia Brady; now I'm supposed to be Jan?

I'm gonna get Horizontal Corn on that ass.

Turnin' the other cheek.

But not like the meek.

Of that corn fed ass. Girl, I ain't forgot.

Run my finger on the brim of my golf hat.

One time.

Roll in a golf cart.

Two times.

Drop 26 of 39 for 181 on some athletes from Eau Claire.

Three times.

Feel me?

That was efficient.

My offense deficient?

Whatever, Purdue.

Drink your PBR brew.

You don't want this. Can't comprehend this. Won't take this.

Trying to ascertain the complexity that is me.

Stepping schematically to the G and the D.

I'm Edward James Olmos in American Me.

I may drop seventy; I may drop three.

The mean is my friend and that is the key.

Trying to assail my essence with your blitzing insouciance?

Ha ha.

Not your tendency.

Not today.

Cuz I charted that shit.

Graphs are immutable. Those lines continue forever.

Boilermaker, heartbreaker.

I'm the anvil, take your advil.

My sledge is like Percy, and I got no mercy.

Gonna press on. Keep on. Get right.

Get horizontal on that ass.

No, I ain't forgot.





(drops mic, folds arms, shuffles laterally, lights fade)