Are we pigeon-liver’d? Do we lack gall?
To make this back-to-back oppression bitter, or ere this
Shall we invoke the ghosts of playoffs 2015
And shall we live comfortably with shabby calls?
Bloody, bawdy, remorseless -
Soft! let us recall the stranger aspects of Subban, Rinne, Josi
Remorseless, treacherous, lecherous, kindless villains all.
O, vengeance!
Why, HF Jets-men, what class have we? Is this is most brave,
That we, the bearers of a dear hope murder'd,
By a gimmick-strewn 3-on-3
Prompted to our revenge by heaven and hell,
Must, like a w(hore), unpack our hearts with fancy stats, and words,
And fall a-cursing, like a host of drab scullions?
Fie upon't! foh! About, my brain! I will project
That guilty creatures sitting at Bridgestone,
Have by the very cunning of the scene,
Become struck so to the soul that presently
They will stop laughing in their sleeves
And stop suckling greedy at their mead.
And behold. Consider this team, our team, in the cold light of day.
For desire, though it have no tongue, will speak
With most miraculous efficiency. I'll have these players
Hutch, O’Connor, Frenchy, Armia, Roslo, Pate, Fly, Stats
Play at something savage before the sullen host
And we shall observe the Preds with non-existent looks;
We'll tend them to the quick: and they will but blench
And I know our course.