In our circumstance (and I speak of the Rocket),
That we face the Caps and their fragile paper-tiger cachet,
'Tis heavy with Pate, that the Jets contemplate this battle;
To double-up; aye, to take them down and execute the purging of his soul,
When he is fit and seasoned for this passage?
Aye.
Up, stick, with low kick and otherworldly dimension:
When Ovi is drunk with glorious wishes, or in his rage;
Or in some misplaced pleasure at the top of the dot;
Or skating aimlessly, swearing and waiting to gain the zoun
That has no relish of salvation in it.
Then, with sick goals, trip him, that his skate blades may wiggle at heaven,
And that his soul may be as damned and whack
As Helle Boy’s**, whereto his fired pucks are stopped. As PoMo says,
Ovi’s physic but prolongs his sickly days.
**assuming its not Hutch between the pipes
Go
and Ovi 
