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.

Home | Poetry Menu

Copyright © 2004 David MacLennan