kanadalainen
A pint of dark matter, please.
Now is the winter of our considerable content,
Aye; 24 games have we leapt,
As will a besotted courtier
Beyond false .500,
And now face we yonder Kings.
Now thy squad shall square up,
And deign to assume a Kingslayer’s mien, as -
Frailty, thy name is Quick.
Cowardly Kings die many times before their deaths, but
The valiant Jets shall never taste of death.
Blood (Buff), destruction (Patty) and Comrie shall be so in use,
And dreadful objects so familiar,
That Kings’ mothers shall but smile when they behold
Their offspring quartered with the hands of war,
All pity choked with custom of fell deeds,
And our second line’s spirit, ranging for revenge,
With JoMo by their side come hot from hell.
For in these MTS confines shall we quell a monarch’s voice?
Soft! This match will witness a burial of Royalty –
Full fathom five thy wizen’d Kings shall lie, post-play.
Of their bones are coral made.
Those are pearls that were their eyes,
But shadows now that doth fade,
And suffer a sea-change into something dank, dead and strange.
(And SportsNet doth protest too much, methinks).