How quaint when the Devil doth spit and fight,
Knowing a better Jetted spirit hath stolen his game,
And in the chase up-ice spends all his might,
To end up stymied, baffled, downcast with shame.
And Helly resurrect the blocker side biz,
To humble the proudest shot Bratt doth bear,
Hischier’s saucy footwork doth not JoMo bequiz
Jets, let your forecheck game wilfully appear.
Kyle, your breaks on PK will hold me up afloat,
Whilst we upon your cacophony of goals doth ride;
Put the torch to Markstrom, see him wreck'd, the worthless stoat,
He of tall ego and of goodly pride:
Then if we thrive and the Devils be cast away,
The best was the moment we broke these popinjays.