View attachment 1005323
Slouch’d and issuing forth from Vegas’ swollen maw, they arrive:
The knighted wankers of our discontent
Imbued with trinkets from the botox’d town;
Before them, all of Eichel’s hair lower'd upon us
In the deep bosom of the of Vegas’ nest buried.
While Jets brows are briefly bound with worry;
Their bruised arms hung up for monuments;
Their stern alarms gathering steam,
The dreadful waiting to measured hope.
Grim-visaged wars hath smooth'd the Jets’ wrinkled front;
And again we reflect back on recent deeds,
To fright the souls of those distant knights,
And our forwards caper nimbly, in their iced chambers
To the lascivious cacophony of a hockey rock tune.
But we, that are not shaped for Cinderella’d tricks,
The Jetsfolk clan are but rudely stamp'd,
Aye, and yet seek summate majesty,
To set before a stoic steadfast fanbase.
What’s this, motley knights? Golden in name only -
Naught but curtail'd of this unlikely proportion,
Cheated of feature by Cassidy’s joyless nature,
Recently beaten, sent after their time
Into this ominous breathing rink, scarce half made up,
And so lame and unfashionable.
Plots has Bones laid, bent on D in the neutral,
And by dint of pucks inducted dangerous,
By sober prophecies, no libel or dreams here,
To drive those mothers – the Knights
To a confused state of one oppos’d t’other:
Stumbling over each other to lay blame.
And if Morrissey be as true and just
As Lurch and Shuffles are yet subtle and dangerous,
This day should the Perfecto be free'd up,
To fulfil a be-bearded prophecy, which says that we
Heirs to a competitive placement in central shall be.
Dive not, play hard, with all your soul:
This grudge match comes.