Denn wenn ich entscheid ne nachricht zu schreib,
hat es eine absicht für meinen abtuptem sein,
,,Wie solln die das denn jetzt wissn?"
Gute frage du sagst, denkste ich habs nicht selber mal gefragt?!
Denn ich hass es selbst das ich die taste drück,
manchmal komm ich schroff durch die haut der leute wie eine mück.
Aber ich wollt doch nur sagen wie es gewesen war,
Ich wollt doch nur sagen wie es gemeint war,
Ich wollt doch nur sagen was ich denk.
Denn warum bin ich dann teil des volks?
Warum bin ich denn dann da?
,,Es war eine pflicht wir muss erfülln?"
Also ihr wolltet mich garnicht da,
wieso bleib ich dann da?
Ich hab es satt das lenkrad zu sein,
,,du gehörst aber zu uns"
Wieso ists mir dann peinlich,
wenn ich die nachricht lösch?
In the covert rendezvous of reality
My heart habs motionlessly.
Tranquilly, yet peace-less
In the very art of loneliness
I crave for a minstrel
Endowed with mastery of the timbrel
Cunningly curing the blisters of emotion
And poking my pox of dissatisfaction.
Fair Eh your honest, hockey place,
Great Chieftain of the scarring face!
Between the boards with skates to lace,
Your rubber froze,
And 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 toward 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 goal tender’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,
And trade precious teeth!
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!
Tampa Bay Lightning v. Montréal Canadiens
This is the real duel of the fates
The battle between two worthy opponents
The clash against two powerhouses
The Lightning are hungry for one reason
To have revenge the sweep from last year's postseason
The Canadiens are hungry for one reason
To avenge the sweep from this year's regular season
From their leaders to their final defenders
With their playing styles to their shining moments
One side stands Stamkos, Johnson, and Bishop
While on the other side stands Subban, Pacioretty, and Price
From firing the tesla coils of bolts
To burning the fire from its torch
From the bay of the blue and white
To the sea of blue, white, and red
From Thunderbug against Youppi!
"Let's Go Bolts!" against "Go Habs Go!"
The intensity will reach into new heights
It will leave a fan at the very edge of their seats
Hearts will collide between this rivalry
Their pride and honor will be at high stakes
This is the true glory of hockey...
The glory between the storm and the fire
Migel your habs cruggled to a stone
In Hoppsberry he frailed a rubbingone
Dan Shane and Mirrabelene snogged the day
Upon the fritful Lubbenderry
So the Bennets grubbed a ree
For queen Lodd who went for a tee
Mill Flogginben flonked in the month of May
Slurpped berrettidos for cabalerry
The turf fires glow reduced to ash
A million years of bog history
As I watched the glowing embers
My mind took me back
To a nearly forgotten time
When the turf ruled the hearths
And cranes swung pans over its heat
Boiling the “spuds” and baking the bread
Keeping habs hot to warm cold bums
Now and then a new piece would be added
To keep the fire burning brightly
Ensuring our stew would be cooked to perfection
And ready to fill our bellies at the table
Spuds still in their jackets, slightly cracked
Revealing the white floury potato inside
Were tipped onto a plate on the table
The steam rising with the earthy smell of spuds
Freshly dug from the garden no more than an hour ago
Onto our side plates to peel
Then topped with butter to watch it melt
And flow like lava from a volcano
As dairy from animal meets vegetable
Our taste buds are treated to
A festival of flavours on a plate
Simply superb
They toiled with hands like tree bark
As they cut through rotted peat
Stacking it in heaps to dry
Did not have to be that neat
Just so long as the Westerly’s
Could dry out the peat bog water
So it could burn on winters nights
Was all that really mattered
And they could sit in warm habs
With hot broth in their hand
Another day’s work completed
And an evening’s rest began
Fine clothes for Sundays they were saved
So they could look their best
While thanking God in Heaven above
For this His blessed day of rest
When they could sit down at the pew
With Hymn book at the ready
To sing their praises to the Lord
With voices strong and steady
Then off to Pub to sup a pint
And wild stories for to tell
Of how they dug for peat so deep
They nearly ended up in hell