Put this together with a little help from ChatGPT. Feel free to add your own versions.
The Ballad of Fran McCaffery
Oh, Fran, you came with fire bright,
To lift us from the darkest night.
From Lickliter’s slow and lifeless way,
You gave us reason once to stay.
You stormed the court with passion bold,
A tempest fierce, a tale retold.
The Hawkeyes ran, the points would soar,
Yet March would lock the final door.
The dreams we dreamed were never small,
But fortune frowned when stakes stood tall.
A season strong, a team so fine—
Yet heartbreak came at tourney time.
Some banners waved, some moments shined,
Yet deeper runs were left behind.
For all the rage, for all the fight,
We never reached the grandest height.
And now the seats lie bare and cold,
The echoes of the cheers grow old.
The coffers thin, the boosters sigh,
As richer programs pass us by.
The sons you raised, you let them play,
While others watched and hoped in vain.
Did loyalty outshine the goal?
Or did it weigh upon your soul?
So here’s to Fran, both fierce and flawed,
Who gave us hope but left us awed—
At what was built, yet left undone,
At what was lost when hope was spun.
Now time moves on, the torch will pass,
The glass stands empty, drained at last.
No statues rise, no songs remain—
It’s time to find a new campaign.
The Ballad of Fran McCaffery
Oh, Fran, you came with fire bright,
To lift us from the darkest night.
From Lickliter’s slow and lifeless way,
You gave us reason once to stay.
You stormed the court with passion bold,
A tempest fierce, a tale retold.
The Hawkeyes ran, the points would soar,
Yet March would lock the final door.
The dreams we dreamed were never small,
But fortune frowned when stakes stood tall.
A season strong, a team so fine—
Yet heartbreak came at tourney time.
Some banners waved, some moments shined,
Yet deeper runs were left behind.
For all the rage, for all the fight,
We never reached the grandest height.
And now the seats lie bare and cold,
The echoes of the cheers grow old.
The coffers thin, the boosters sigh,
As richer programs pass us by.
The sons you raised, you let them play,
While others watched and hoped in vain.
Did loyalty outshine the goal?
Or did it weigh upon your soul?
So here’s to Fran, both fierce and flawed,
Who gave us hope but left us awed—
At what was built, yet left undone,
At what was lost when hope was spun.
Now time moves on, the torch will pass,
The glass stands empty, drained at last.
No statues rise, no songs remain—
It’s time to find a new campaign.
