There's murmuring down Causeway Street of empty winter nights,
They'll lack, I fear, the goals, the checks, and then, of course, the fights.
The season, thanks to bickering, has fallen into ruins
Before it's even started. And for those who love the Bruins,
The great, blank months loom dark and bleak. On bitter gall they sup,
For there may be no chase this year for Stanley's shining cup.
What else gives winter meaning? Scraping ice from off your car?
Or getting lost in swirling snow and won'dring where you are?
Or skiing? Where you freeze your feet and break your aging bones?
Or, how 'bout curling? Brushing paths for stupid, sliding stones?
Look, winter here is hockey. It's the game folks here adore.
It's been that way since glory walked among us, Bobby Orr...
Nah, "walked among" is not the term. It's flying's what he did.
And what a falling off is here, now hockey's off the grid.
The players claim the owners aren't as busted as they say.
The owners want the players to agree the teams can't pay
As much as they are paying and still manage to survive...
The players say that math is all manipulative jive...
Ah, who can stand the back and forth, the posturing, the bull?
The game's the point, the fans who pay the freight are likely full
To well past overflowing with the owners crying poor,
The only solace is, I guess, that right here we've got four
Good hockey teams to watch, although their season's not as long...
Northeastern, B.C., B.U., Harvard, hey, you can't go wrong...
Ah, yeah, who do I think I'm foolin'? Winter is in ruins,
If all we have is nights of snow and ice without the Bruins
Colliding with the Penguins and the Rangers and the Ducks --
A mad collage of mucking in the corners, flying pucks...
Alternatives abound, I guess, for killing winter time,
But killing off the game? For now, it strikes me as a crime.