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"Once More, the Flame Store" – A 2011 Stanley Cup Lament
To the tune of Poe’s “The Raven,” by way of Mad Magazine’s therapy couch
Once upon a game night tragic, dry of joy and void of magic,
While I nursed a sad old lager near my Canucks jersey drawer—
As the screen began to flicker, and the Bruins skated quicker,
Came a knocking at my sanity like Marchand on Luongo’s door.
“Twelve wins,” I cried, “We’ve done the climb—just one more!”
Quoth the scoreboard: “Try Game Four.”
Game One: we’re flying! Game Two: we’re kings!
Bieksa scores off wacky things!
We’re two-nil up, the Cup’s in sight, Roberto’s chest begins to roar!
But Game Three brought humiliation, seven goals and no salvation,
Then came four—with fists and flops and Bruins' hits that fans abhorred.
They beat us up, then beat the buzzer, racking goals in Boston’s core—
Quoth the Bruins: “Even more.”
Game Five! Our boys reboundin’, Rogers’ roof about to cave in—
Lappy scored, the fans exploded, towels spun like days of yore!
But Game Six—oh cruel deflation! Boston brought the decimation.
Marchand jabbed and Thomas robbed us like a goalie with folklore.
“We’re going home,” we lied aloud, “Game Seven’s ours for sure!”
Quoth the Bruins: “Final score?”
Then Game Seven. Hopes were shattered. Dreams deflated. Spirits battered.
Luongo stared into the void as puck by puck they upped the score.
Our forwards vanished, Sedins faded, every pass misfired or jaded—
The Cup, so close, was hoisted high by Bruins we'd grown to abhor.
And when they skated with it, we collapsed upon the floor.
Quoth the riot: “Time for war.”
Sirens blaring, dumpsters flying, every jerseyed fan was crying—
From Georgia Street to Cambie, rage poured out in fits galore.
Tear gas swirled ‘round smashed-in windows, looters danced in apocalyptic limbo,
A Canucks flag waved from a flipped car like some Mad Max metaphor.
We didn’t win the Cup—but hey, we looted an Apple Store.
Quoth the riot: “Burn once more.”
Now years have passed, the wounds still tender, we rewatch highlights, then surrender—
To pain, to pride, to knowing we were oh-so-close… and then: no more.
We still wear blue, still chant and cheer, though every spring brings back the fear
That once again we’ll see Game Seven—and once again, we’ll lose the war.
And somewhere deep in ashes cold, beneath the Bay’s revolving door…
Quoth the Canucks: “Maybe four?”
To the tune of Poe’s “The Raven,” by way of Mad Magazine’s therapy couch
Once upon a game night tragic, dry of joy and void of magic,
While I nursed a sad old lager near my Canucks jersey drawer—
As the screen began to flicker, and the Bruins skated quicker,
Came a knocking at my sanity like Marchand on Luongo’s door.
“Twelve wins,” I cried, “We’ve done the climb—just one more!”
Quoth the scoreboard: “Try Game Four.”
Game One: we’re flying! Game Two: we’re kings!
Bieksa scores off wacky things!
We’re two-nil up, the Cup’s in sight, Roberto’s chest begins to roar!
But Game Three brought humiliation, seven goals and no salvation,
Then came four—with fists and flops and Bruins' hits that fans abhorred.
They beat us up, then beat the buzzer, racking goals in Boston’s core—
Quoth the Bruins: “Even more.”
Game Five! Our boys reboundin’, Rogers’ roof about to cave in—
Lappy scored, the fans exploded, towels spun like days of yore!
But Game Six—oh cruel deflation! Boston brought the decimation.
Marchand jabbed and Thomas robbed us like a goalie with folklore.
“We’re going home,” we lied aloud, “Game Seven’s ours for sure!”
Quoth the Bruins: “Final score?”
Then Game Seven. Hopes were shattered. Dreams deflated. Spirits battered.
Luongo stared into the void as puck by puck they upped the score.
Our forwards vanished, Sedins faded, every pass misfired or jaded—
The Cup, so close, was hoisted high by Bruins we'd grown to abhor.
And when they skated with it, we collapsed upon the floor.
Quoth the riot: “Time for war.”
Sirens blaring, dumpsters flying, every jerseyed fan was crying—
From Georgia Street to Cambie, rage poured out in fits galore.
Tear gas swirled ‘round smashed-in windows, looters danced in apocalyptic limbo,
A Canucks flag waved from a flipped car like some Mad Max metaphor.
We didn’t win the Cup—but hey, we looted an Apple Store.
Quoth the riot: “Burn once more.”
Now years have passed, the wounds still tender, we rewatch highlights, then surrender—
To pain, to pride, to knowing we were oh-so-close… and then: no more.
We still wear blue, still chant and cheer, though every spring brings back the fear
That once again we’ll see Game Seven—and once again, we’ll lose the war.
And somewhere deep in ashes cold, beneath the Bay’s revolving door…
Quoth the Canucks: “Maybe four?”
