Tis now the very (b)itching time of night,
When Stars fans clench n’ squirm, and Helle himself breathes out
Contagion to Benn and Spezza: Radulov’s game is hot mud,
Laine will do such bitter clap bombs and hit the net, no lies*
Bishop would quake to look on. Soft! Let’s hose those Dallas mothers. —
O Connor*; first line; lose not thy nature; let not ever
The souls of Heroes exit thy collective bosoms:
Jet D corps – you may be cruel, stingy, unnatural;
You will wreak havoc with Stars’ lines, none shall pass;
Fly is overdue for goals and in this be hungry, —
The third line will flex, and Copp will go full send,
Jets give Stars hope - never, my soul, consent.
* Jets' culture reference