Sorry, Tex. To paraphrase the Mailman’s favorite psychedelic drug-induced redcoat, the QB is old, the dream is gone. Best we can hope for is, to paraphrase my favorite redcoat, the light that Butte leaves behind will everglow:
Like the Lions Butte ran
The Queens Butte rolled
Like the Bears Butte circled
In perfect yellow
They swore on the night
Butte’d be a Packer 'til he dies
But the changing of winds
And the way waters flow
Heydays are short as the falling of snow
And now we’re gonna miss Butte, we know