Log Cabin Chronicles
Address to a puck
Fair eh, your honest hockey place,
Great chieftain of the scarring face;
Where between the boards skates to lace:
Your rubber froze,
Darting dangerous quick of pace,
In slap shots rose.
The crackling ice on which you slide,
Chased by padded boys well applied;
In loss or victory you decide:
Yours' not to let,
Where shots be accurate or wide,
Streak towards the net.
This disc hits corners left and right,
Can cut you up with ready slight;
From in behind burns the goal light:
Whoa bulging twine,
This the lonely net minder's plight,
Guards the thin red line.
Quick hands and fast of foot to flop,
Who are said to be o'er the top;
On grenades hurled they're known to drop:
And fallen beneath,
With bodies bruised, brave lads will stop -
Trading precious teeth.
Yes, your powers make cold winter fair;
In boyhood dreams young and old share,
With pride our true colours to wear:
On Habs or Leafs stuck,
This O Canada's common prayer -
Blessed be a puck.
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Copyright © 2004 David MacLennan