A Forecast in Verse

‘Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the league
Not a player was stirring, nor shouting, “referee!”
The nylon was stitched on the rims so tall,
Awaiting the new year: the return of old balls.

The Commish was snuggled in thread-count delight
While Carmelo and team reconsidered the fight.
Isiah looked back on a hallowed career,
Worried his coaching gives fans much to sneer.

From across the river, VC, Kidd and their squad
Needed help from old man Thorn, aka Rod.
The entire Atlantic sunk in the cellar,
AI disappeared like Sarah Michelle Gellar.

Way out West the clubs finished far fewer losers,
Surprised by the likes of ‘Mare, Yao, and Boozer.
But the team to beat, the squad with triangle action,
Kobe and Lamar led by Zen Master Jackson.

Mark it down thick, my prediction for the season
The final two twelve, given logic and reason,
Call it a belated rematch, Kobe v. Rip,
Raise the trophy for Phil, remember, his bum hip.