LO, praise of the prowess of people-Jets
of puckshot Danes, in games long sped,
But what we have heard, and what honor the ducklings won?
Oft Henrique the Scefing from squadroned foes,
from many a tribe, Comtois the mead-bench tore,
awing the girls. Since erst most Ducks lay
friendless, foundlings all, fate repaid them:
for they wane under Silfverberg, the loss of wealth they throve,
Till before him the Ducked fan folk**, both far and near,
Abandon them in disinterest.
Yo, gaze upon our house by the Winnipeg path, see our mandate,
Jets give us gifts: a good team we!
To Jets 1.0 an heir was afterward born,
a lovely 2.0 child in these halls, whom heaven sent
to favor the folk, feeling their hockeyless woe
that erst they had lacked an proper coach for leader
so long a while; then Bones endowed us,
the Wielder of Wonder, with world’s renown.
Famed was this Beowulf’d coach: far flew the boast of him,
son of Scyld, in the Manitoban lands.
** those fans are ducked.