Shall I compare Buff to a freight train?
His hits art more lovely, yet more insensinate.
And aye; Foligno’d thugs do skullduggery behind the Play,
But “This is Our Ice” piece hath all too short a date.
Sometime too hot the cheeks of Boudreau shine,
Sunday’s loss saw the Jets’ gold complexion dimmed;
But ever fair will glim the magic of our forward lines,
By Stats and Fly’s odd-man rush untrimmed.
And the promise of the White Out shall not fade,
Nor shall we lose possession of that fair puck thou ow’st,
Nor shall lack of depth shag our chances in the shade,
When in Shuffles’ line the offensive floodgate grow’st.
So long as Farmboys can breathe and Pate can see,
The blocker side and five-hole gives life to we.