Whether my team, facing these carcharthiniformes untrue,
Swim with yon plague, this predatory flattery?
Or whether shall I say, Prionace glauca’s face turneth blue,
And that Hertl’s glow brews this 930 pm game time alchemy,
We talk of sleep, with proximal saw-toothed monsters and of things indigest
Such somnolent stumblebums as our sweet Jets resemble,
Creating every bad zone chip-in and skate pass a perfect best,
Whipped out as pucks to our Offensive Schemes assemble?
Yo, ‘tis the Robin Hood of the ice, 'tis Karlsson in my seeing,
Let Nino in his glory blow him up, say whot:
He's mine guy in the lines Bones’ scrambled top-lines preparing,
And to our palate doth strive for the bleeding playoff spot:
Pray to Poseidon for a Jets win, set loose this win-based dimorphism
So prominent in love for this years’ first half – before post January’s paroxysm.