This time of the schedule thou mayst in me behold
When yellow’d Preds adorned with mustard slime do hang
Upon those kitten’d Jerseys their weakened limbs shake as cold,
Bridgestone’s bare ruin'd choirs, where tractor’d fans have sang.
In the Jets, thou seest the resurgent glorious days
As after Josi’s sunset fadeth in the west,
Which Lardo brings their night and joy doth take away,
Death's second self, that seals up Saros and Schenn in rest.
In Names thou see'st the glowing of such fire
That on the ashes of Zucker doth lie,
As the death-bed whereon Yellow’d kittens must expire
Consumed with a revamp’d system that Lowry nourish'd by.
This thou perceivest, which makes Jets’ game more strong,
To love that well, and Preds bereave ere long.