Then let not these recent games ragged hand deface
In thee thy summer Jets, ere thou be distill'd:
Make sweet some pact; treasure thou skills in place
With its oft hidden power, ere it be self-kill'd.
Forwards, flex, shoot, wheel and celly,
And happily pay the costs, pay the staggering loan;
While sleek and fatted Habs scratch their collective belly,
Aye, Jets - attack ten times faster, be it one or ten;
D-men, make Ten times happier tomorrow than thou art now,
Flash skate, blade, muscle of thine refigured thee:
What could death do, if thou shouldst slay this sacred cow,
Leaving thy sullied name living in posterity?
Be strong, and sure, skate hard - for thou art much too fair
To be death's conquest and make worms thine heir.