Friends, Finns, Farmleaguesmen, de-catfish your beer:
Expunge thy mental image of the piscine oral servitude – for,
We come to bury Nashville, not to praise them.
And 7 o’clock is that very bi(e)tching time of night,
When the mustard besotted clench n’ squirm,
And Helle himself breathes out.
Cry “Havoc!” and let slip the 4th line Jesus of war,
To quell the Preds’ foul litter - smelling above the earth
The fetid tapestry of their carrion plays, groaning for burial.
Contagion to Johansen and Fiala, and
Subban’s game is a Fakers’ Creed, a fool’s delight:
(To Spin and Flail as if be-gunshot, in a 10 minute rotation)
That painted lady doth protest too much, methinks.
Aye! If Buff can catch him once upon the hip,
He will feed fat the ancient grudge he bears him.
All of Donald street’s a stage,
And all Jets forwards the gnarly players.
Will Mo roll four O-minded lines,
And within their shifts play many parts?
Aye, so be it.
Thus from the blades of Atarifriends,
Sporting sick perversion and heavy iceminits -
A blinding whiteout fury and fierce puck-strewn strife
Shall cumber all the parts of Nashville!