When Jets’ wins begin to blur without great argument at home –
Then its time to find quarrel in Raleigh
When honour's at the stake.
How stand we then, HFboardsmen,
Shall Ward be virtually killed, the ‘Canes D-men stained?
Shots from our wingers bending blades, space, time;
The puck’s mass grown exponential
Slowed passage of time, freezing with my blood,
Aye; Gravity itself defied from Laine’s two offices, and -
As our D-corps wreak havoc on the ‘Canish sheep?
While, beyond the exultant GDT, I see
The death of all hope of twenty thousand fans at PNC
That, for a fantasy and trick of fame,
Go to their graves like beds — and jostle for a plot
Whereon the home sides’ Corsi numbers,
Are testament to thy shame,
Which is not tomb enough and continent
To hide the blown out ‘Canes? O, from this time forth
Jets’ collective thoughts be bloody, or be nothing worth!