Cans’t thou remember
A time before we incessantly played the Blues?
Upon the Jets! let us our lives, our souls,
Our debts, our careful wives,
Our children and our sins lay on the Jets!
We must bear these tight games.
O hard condition,
Twin-born with greatness, subject to the breath
Of every strung-out fan,
Whose sense no more can feel
But his own wringing! What infinite heart's-ease
Must our squad neglect, that luckier teams enjoy!
But hold:
Is this a best of three which I see before me -
Another key contest for my Merry Band?
Come, let me watch thee.
Hopes dream’t for a win!
Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible
To feeling as to sight? Or art thou but
A dagger of the mind, a false creation,
Proceeding from the heat-oppressèd brain?
I see thee yet, in form as palpable
As this which now I draw.
And what of Laine, Fly and Farmboy
Kapitan, Litts and PK'ing Purple?
To thee I say: be not afraid of greatness.
Some are born great, some achieve greatness,
and some have greatness thrust upon 'em.
Consider yon Blues goalie too,
For he is but human.
If you deke him, does he not bleed?
If you clap one, does he not collapse?
If you pick up the holy rebound**,
Do the Blues not reel?
And if they go up 2-0,
Shall we not revenge?
If the playoffs be the food of love, play on.
Give me moar goals so that, surfeiting,
The appetite may sicken, and so die.
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**Original reference made in documents located in the salvaged crypt contents of the Cathedrale de Notre Dame de Paris. Modern reference - 1st OT - Farmhand goal April 16, 2019