Beating the Eagles is still beating the Eagles.

It feels good to beat them. It's like beating up your big brother in the front yard in front of everybody.

King of the peak and glacier, King of the cold, white scalps, He lifts his head at that close tread, The eagle of the Alps.

He clasps the crag with hooked hands; Close to the sun in lonely lands, Ring'd with the azure world, he stands. The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls: He watches from his mountain walls, And like a thunderbolt he falls.

Shall eagles not be eagles? wrens be wrens? If all the world were falcons, what of that? The wonder of the eagle were the less, But he not less the eagle.

The bird of Jove, stoop'd from his aery tour, Two birds of gayest plume before him drove.