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And what's he then that says I play the villain?
When coaching, my advice is free I give and honest,
Probal because I am thinking I am indeed right of course,
And be a champ again? For 'tis most easy
The inclining Nathan Beaulieu to subdue
In any Bulldog suit: he's framed as fruitful,
Yet has free elements. And then for him
To win me over-were't to renounce his roaming freedom,
All positional play will redeem his sin,
His soul is so enfetter'd I must shove,
That he may make, unmake, do what he list,
Even as his appetite shall play the god
With his weak function. How am I then a villain
To counsel Nathan to this parallel course,
Directly to his good? Dep City of hell!
When devils will the blackest sins put on,
They oft suggest at first with heavenly shows,
As I do now: for whiles this honest fool
Plies his trade in Hamilton to repair his fortunes
And fans for him plead strongly to mine ear,
I'll pour this pestilence into this air,
That his defence repeals him for this team’s just;
And by how much he strives to do himself good,
He shall undo his credit all the more.
So will I turn his virtues into a glitch,
And out of his own goodness takes the net
That shall entwines us all.
To goon, or not to goon: that is the question:
Whether ’tis Habbier in fans mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous media,
Or to bare fists against a sea of Leafs and Bruins,
And by opposing end them? To ban: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural knocks
That a goon is heir to, ’tis a concussion
Devoutly to be avoided. For if ‘twas to die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub;
For in that game without fights what scenes may come
When it has shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there’s the respect
That makes a ruin of that elder’s life;
For who would bear the fists and checks of time,
The oppressor’s wrong, Marchand’s insolence.
Lucy’s stick of despised love, the ref not seeing the play,
The blindness of the NHL offices and the fans
whose patient merit of the untrustworthy takes,
When the goon himself reaches his final destination
Bereft of reason? Who would be the fardel of the pallbearers,
Who grunt and sweat under this bleak life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover’d country from whose stream
No player returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus concussions do make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of Fate,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their actions turn awry,
And so lose the game of action.–Soft you now!
The fair Cup of Stanley! Goal, in our prayers
Be all these goons remember’d.