When in the chronicle of this season’s time
I see public demonstration of Jetted shyte,
Tolerance made of games with bales of cilantro and thyme
And (happily) praise of Beyak's deeds and the Deadass Folden Knights,
Then, in the blazon of the final few game's best,
Of Calmrie, of Farmhand, of Fly, Lurch and JoMo,
I see the Jets better parts - let it be profess'd
We can still get stoked for this evening’s show.
Aye, let all their praises be but prophecies
Of this time next year, all of you prefiguring;
Let us prepare again for battle with fresh discerning eyes,
Jets have skill enough for their worth to sing:
For we, which now behold these sullen days,
Still have eyes to wonder, despite no tongue to praise.
-Polonius, Act 1 Scene III.
Hamlet