But, soft! what puck through yonder Hawk goalie pad squeaks?
It is shot by the beast, and he plays at number one.
Arise, fair Jets, and smite the envious Hawks,
Who art already sick and pale with grief,
That thou Wins tally art far more fair than they:
Beware their warming Kane, as he wishes for more, but -
Yo! The Hawks' vestal livery is but Saad, sick and green
The Cat has stubbed his Toews; and crashed into the Crow.
It is our Helle Boy, O, that we love!
O, along with El Kapitan, doth possess the sick backhand!
And O’Connor’s farmleague dekes continue to plough forth possession: what of that?
While Chef gathers points like a Slavic grandmother does mushrooms,
Laine's release befuddles; none will track it.