This day is call'd the Feast of Game Four,
Any Jet that plays heavyminits, and lays out a sundry Pred,
Will stand a tip-toe when this day is nam'd,
And rouse him at the mention of Bell/MTS centre.
That Buff, Shuffles, and Helle Boy shall live this day, and see old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast their neighbours,
And say "To-morrow is for that Game Four."
Then Patty will open his man cave cabinet and show his three pucks,
And a Main street mural will depict "Three pucks and Pate, grinning lopsided."
Old Kittens will forget, to shelter their aching minds,
And banish themselves to the basement litter.
But those a-board will remember, with advantages,
What feats the Jets did that day. Then shall their names,
Familiar in children’s mind's as Fly’s 0-zoun entry—
Troobs, Wheels,
O’Connor, Walnuts,
Frenchie and Condor, Lurch, Copper and Tanev,
Be in their flowing twelve dollar beers freshly rememb'red.
This story shall the good man teach his kid;
And the story of Game 4 shall ne'er go by,
From this day to the ending of the franchise,
But we to witness it shall remember—
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that shares his board-borne thoughts with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition;
And those in Northern Europe, Canada and the U.S. now a-board
Shall think themselves bless'd they were here,
While the mustard kittens and their associates,
Hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks,
Of Jets and us Jetophiles, and the Feast of Game Four.