Hark! Who would spank a Yellow’d feline,
Long of the tooth, suffering the vagarities
Of a desperate and desolate existence?
Buff, Lurch, and the Tanev’d buzzsaw.
Aye - consider now ye, the mustard tigers -
Who grunt and sweat under a weary life,
Ever in need of the litter box - incontinent,
Bearing that ghastly shred of a miscolour’d jersey,
In the undiscover’d country of south central,
From whose bourn, no true ice lives,
And it puzzles the hockey’d soul.
Laviolette, his visage haunted,
Tries to ladel cilantro with a sickly mustard-splatter'd spoon,
To thus encourage PK’s judgement, for the trip and slash;
For which chicanery has become infamous,
And bear the whips and scorns of many a-board,
But to this dark art, he comes too late.
And Rinne, here’s a drink to the proud man’s confusion,
And to the insolence of Helle Boy as he spurns thee
To the patient merit of the third line’s checks,
And Fly and Pate themselves might riotous make
With a tally between of three skins?
And shall we thus increase Shuffles’ due of icetime?
And paint that o’er with the strong cast of hatties brought,
And the enterprises of Farmleague, Stats and Wheels
And disregard the mustard forays which turn awry,
And lose the name of action.—Run you kittens,
And be driven before us.