Seize this game, my Jets; yo, take it all;
Add this win to thy pile – recall ye what thou hadst before.
Second line love, Guv’, that’s what mayst true love call;
All mine is thine when you ramp up thy score.
Let Nylander, thy beef-witted clotpole receivest,
An open-ic’d hipcheck from Stastny, with love he bruiseth;
And let Helly outgame, wall-like, and thyself deceivest
JT, Kerfoot, and Spezza - remain chaste of thy goals he refusest.
I do not forgive thy past game’s robbery, little shytes,
Although thou squeal and horde thy moral poverty;
And yet, the Hockey Gods nod to these miserable wights
To fate gone stupendously wrong more than hate's known injury.
Yo, swag-bellied Leaves, in whom all ill well shows,
The Jets will dine on your spites; and ever remain foes.