O all you host of Deadthings! Yo Nyquist! Yo Zett!
Shall we lead thee to hell? O, fie! — Hold, my heart;
And witness our squad – nay, grow not instant despairing,
Yet cast thy gaze on Man-Bear Buff. — Remember we!
Aye, thou poor broken Wings, while memory holds a seat
In this distracted globe. Remember we!
Yea, prepare your table for a beat-down,
Our third line will wipe away all trivial fond records,
All of Abdelkader’s looks, your O-zoun pressures past,
Larkin’s goofs shall fuel entertainment for our D-men here;
And thy coaching staff all alone shall live
In a pitiless vortex of unrelenting pain,
Mix'd with base matter: yes, by heaven! —
Our most tenacious first line, will cause you to murmur
O Fefe, Fefe, smiling, damned Bambi!
And El Capitan shall set the table for your demise,
That local HFBoards may smile, and smile,
With Zinfandel a-swillin’
As Jets forwards run rampant,
And after, set to chillin’.