Slouch’d and issuing forth from Calgary’s swollen maw, they wait:
The flaming wankers of our discontent
Imbued with roster’d trinkets as the sons-of-Treliving;
Prior games, all the Flames that lower'd upon our house
In the deep bosom of the several losses buried.
While Jets’ players pool is now replete with a fresh aquisition;
PLD’s arms raised up for monuments;
The trade’s stern alarms shall change to merry celebration,
The dreadful waiting to delightful measure.
Grim-visaged wars hath smooth'd the Jets’ wrinkled front;
And again we reflect back on Fire-dousing deeds,
To fright the souls of those distant Flames,
And our forwards caper nimbly, in the Saddledome’s chambers
To the lascivious cacophony of a clanking crossbar tune.
But we, that are not shaped for Cinderella’d tricks,
The Jetsfolk clan are but rudely stamp'd,
Aye, and yet seek a 4th game majesty,
To set before a wanton, ambling Beyak.