With apologies to Samuel Taylor Coleridge
A Pittsburgh right winger he was,Yet to win Lord Stanley’s Cup.
‘In Holland’s Wings I’ll put my trust,
At last to hoist it up.’
The Bettman fix had done its best
To tilt things to the Pens;
The series done, game seven set,
The curse of Hossa ends.
‘My former team, less than a dream,
I left without a care:
My friends betrayed, for Detroit I played,
To Hockeytown’s despair.
And there I sat, my stats gone flat,
To Hockeytown’s despair.
'With my bad luck the Wings were fucked,
But don’t call me a Czech:
Now octopus, not albatross,
Is hung around my neck.’
Feel free to add your own verses to this epic poem on an ignominious end to an otherwise glorious season. The poetic model is here.
W00t!
ReplyDeleteStevie now rose upon the Wings,
ReplyDeleteOut on the ice He came,
Still on one leg, still twice a Penguin,
Oh, how did He come to be?
While the handshakes blew by,
No pride would thus follow,
Only for pay and not for good play,
The tin of the Cup is hollow.
Losing a nut is a hellish thing,
And Nicky had some woe,
Our Captain was hurt, Sharp you're a turd!
That was why our team was so slow.
But rest, as they say, that bird we will slay,
And back to Detroit it will go.
The schedule just blew, the West we had slew,
But the price of the Cup is not free.
We are the best and with that I will rest,
Cause Crosby cannot be Stevie.