The LowDownTradeDay Blues

Yeah... so, first off I just want to say WORD to MittenChica's post. That is pretty much what I would say if I were in the Eastern time zone. :) But, after reading this, I started to muse while I was drying my hair; which as Lisa can tell you is where I get a lot of my scathingly brilliant ideas. So... without further adieu, I give you the result of Tylenol PM and styling spray fumes along with my own crazy mind.

'Twas the night before the trade deadline, when all thro' the league
All general managers' eyes burn with fatigue;
The trade bait are poised with their phones near their ears,
In hopes that the deadline soon would be here.
The significant others were pacing, no sleep in their beds,
While visions of moving vans danc'd in their heads,
And Lisa in the Mitten, and I in the West,
We'd been racking our brains about which move would be best —
When out on the Gore there arose such a clatter,
I fired up the compy to see what was the matter.
Away to Puck Daddy, I flew like a flash,
Tore through the entries, looking for Dupuis or Nash.
The names on the ticker, showed where they'd go,
Gave some statistics and a picture below;
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But rumors of a defenseman whose price tag is quite dear,
With a draft pick or two, that play in the O,
I had a queasy feeling that it might be my boy JayBo.
More rapid than eagles the stories they came,
The bloggers posted, and plotted, and call'd them by name:
"Now! Army, now! Recchi, now! Richards and Kovy,
"On! Guerin, on! Morris, on! Maybe Dandy not Ovie;
"To the Sens of Ottawa! To the Wild in St. Paul!
"Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!"
As the boys and their travel bags to their new homes fly,
their families pack up houses and start to say their goodbye;
So to Canada or Florida or Texas they flew,
With a fresh start and the Cup rattles in their brain too:
And then in a twinkling, I hear from a blog,
The trade with a team whose mascot is a hog.
As I thought in my head, and was surfing around,
That hopefully one of my boys is not New York bound:
They might be dress'd all in black, from his head to his foot,
And looks like a ninja, not with ashes and soot;
The hopes of better days strapped to his back,
And the coach hopes to make playoffs, no getting the sack:
Their eyes — how they twinkle! The dimples: how merry,
But one of these days they'll be jobbed by Don Cherry;
The plays needs be solid, passes crisp and not slow,
It must be very good to keep his place in the Show;
The wad of bubble gum he holds tight in his cheek,
goes through more Bazooka than a school class in a week.
He may have a round face, and a bit of a belly
But that's all the fat he has, his body is not jelly:
Not chubby or plump, but still a bit of an elf,
And I laugh when I see stories in spite of myself;
In the wink of an eye and a twist of your head,
The deadline has passed and they have nothing to dread.
They speak not a word, but go straight to their work,
And fill all the empty seats; then give the finger to Burke,
And laying his finger aside of his nose
He blows a snot rocket, all over an ice whore's clothes.
He springs over the boards, to his team gives a whistle,
And away they all flew, down the ice where there isn't a thistle:
But I heard the league exclaim, as that hour goes out of sight —
Happy Trade deadline to all, and to all a good night!