Enter, stage left, a third line Jets player.
And thus he spake:
"Is this a Blackhawk which I see before me,
Part of a sad and cheerless band? Come, let me crush thee.
Thou have no shot, and skate as though still.
Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible
But your defence is as shyte? and art thou glory but
A legend in your own mind, a false creation,
Proceeding from the Q’ville-oppressed brain?
O Hossa, they will miss but still sense, in form as palpable
As Toews upon the sand.
Shall Seabrook marshall'st all Hawks to halt their slide?
And Panarin yea verily an instrument to use?
Nay, mine eye test dint confirm thou speculations,
Or else worth all the rest; I see thee still,
And on my stick blade dudgeon gouts of goals,
Which was not so before.
It is the bloody business which informs
Thus to mine eyes."