Why, Mo, he doth coach the narrow’d PK
Like a Colossus, and his tired first line
Play under his huge legs and peep about
To find themselves dishonourable graves.
Yet the Jets at some time are masters of their fates:
The fault, dear HF boarders, is not in our stars,
El Kapitan and Fefe: who should be in that PK?
Why should that game be sounded more than 5 on 5?
Farmboy, or Litts/Roslo together, yours is as fair a name;
Send them, it doth become the solution as well;
Weigh them, it is as heavy; conjure with 'em,
And Scheif will start afresh as soon as penalties decrease.
Now, in the names of all the hockey gods at once,
Upon what meat doth this Maurice feed,
That his judgement has grown so great? Vets, thou art bagged!
Mo, thou hast wasted the breed of noble bloods!
Now is it St. Lou indeed and room enough,
But when in goal there is in it room for but one Croissant.
O, you and I have heard our board mates say,
There was a Coach once that would have brook'd
The eternal devil to keep his state in Jets-land
As easily as a stubborn king.
