Oh, that Jet’s too, too critiqued D would kill,
Flex their corps, and resolve thyself into a brick wall,
And lets pray that JoMo has fixed
His clapper for the Leaf-slaughter!
How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable
Seem to me every player of yon Budlets!
Fie on ’t, ah fie! 'Tis an unweeded garden
Their blended lines grows ripe, may they bleed.
Things rank and gross in nature
Possess their coach clearly -
That it should come to this –
The last game of the year.
But a few weeks Jets strayed to beast mode
So excellent were we in mid-season, that was to this
Hyperion to a satyr.
So loving to PoMo
Were the Jets forwards so as not feel that the winds of misfortune
Visit Jets fans too roughly.
Heaven and earth, that awful loss streak -
Must I remember?
Now I beseech our top six
Nay the top three lines,
Fire on the Leafs tendy, smash him;
As if increase of appetite has grown
By what it fed on the Nucks, and sally forth to ragdoll king Nostril
Let me think on ’t.
Frailty, thy name is Leaves!
A damaging hit in the corner, ere our skates shine bold
With which Pionk will thy poor forward’s bodies,
Like Niobe, all tears.
Why Pierre, Hercule, and even Farmhand —
O God, beasts on the short wall wants dig forth pucks of reason
To Feed Shuffles’s left-side clap bomb!
A greased and bedraggled Thornton will mourn longer
And be married with Sorrow,
Jets will celebrate their another Dubya,
Ere yet the salt of the well-earned righteous tears of loss
Had left the flushing in the Leafs’ gouged eyes.