Friends, Finns, Farmleague-men, lend me your ears:
We come to bury Dallas, not to praise them.
All the world’s a stage,
And all Jets forwards and D-men merely players.
They have their dangles and clap-bombs;
And roll four O-minded lines;
And within their shifts play many parts.
So be it.
Cry “Havoc!” and let slip the dogs of war,
That the Stars’ foul deeds shall smell above the earth
With carrion plays, groaning for burial.
O, pardon me, thou bleeding Stars’ record of W/L,
Some are born great, some achieve greatness,
And some have great traktors thrust upon them.
Our forwards reflect the former, methinks;
Ask us not to be meek and gentle with these talents!
Aye; and art not thy club the ruins,
Of an assembly of the most semi-odiferous men
That ever livèd on the ice of Bell/MTS’ zouns.
Woe to the hand that offer their costly blood!
Over thy wounds now do I prophesy—
And forsee Lehtonen’s frights,
And who dost scurry and flee,
From the hail of pucks of blinding velocity,
From the blades of youngsters,
Sporting heaviest perversion and sickest iceminits
To fulfil the voice and utterance of my tongue—
A curse shall light upon the points of the Stars.
Domestic fury and fierce monstororcanos
Shall cumber all the parts of Dallas.