A Visit from Saint Burke

Editor's Note: The Brunswick Bruiser is back to recount one of my favourite holiday poems.

I know that as I post this, the Leafs are down 2-0 2-1 to the Isles and it's looking like we may be in for a rough night. Put that aside and think of how far we've come in the last little while. Let that thought warm your heart, and then let this re-imagining of a holiday classic punch all of the blood out of it.

T'was the night before Leafsmas, and all through the rink

Not a Leafer was cheering. They mumbled "we stink".

The jerseys were hung in the locker room stalls

In the hopes that good players would soon walk the halls. 

The draft picks were nestled all snug on the farm,

With visions of Stanley's Cup keeping them warm.

And I in my jersey and light-up Leafs cap

Had just started getting quite sick of this crap.

When out in the press there arose such a racket

I logged into Twitter in hopes I could track it.

Away to the blogs I went clicking and scrolling

And fought through the flaming and taunting and trolling.

The news, on the tail of such sad, sorry seasons

Gave me hope beyond measure for several reasons

When what to my desperate eyes should appear,

But free agents aplenty to help us this year.

With a GM so crusty, the plan just might work!

I knew in a moment it must be Saint Burke.

More brutal than metal his players they rode

And collectively, Leafs nation blew a huge load.

Now Kessel! Now Komi! Now Colton and Kadri!

On Schenner, on Monster, on Beauch and Exelby!

To the top of the East! To the playoffs once more!

Now Truculence! Such as like never before!

As Flyers fans, when faced with words larger than "Go!"

They spent all October abysmally low.

So into November ol' Burke lit a flame

To turn them away from the path of the lame.

And then, loud and clear I heard on TSN

The bonecrushing hits from Francois, Mike, and Schenn.

I lifted my head - they were turning around!

And the buzz from the blogs made a wonderful sound.

Burke was dressed in a suit when he showed up that night,

Flanked by moustaches (Colton Orr and Ian White)

A bundle of goals he brought down in a sack

To shore up the points that we'd otherwise lack.

His eyes - how they burned, like Schenn knocking you up

And his hands clutched my head as if it were the Cup

His smiled like a maniac there where he stood

And I feared that, like Wendel, he'd punch out my blood.

He spoke not a word, but the message was clear

"Tell the bloggers that things will be better this year"

And then Stempniak, who must have snuck in as well,

Hit me over the head; to the carpet I fell.

And I watched as he handed out gifts to his team

It was like a blunt trauma-induced happy dream

For Grabbo, a machete, to cut down pineapples

For Colton some Velcro, to help when he grapples

For Blake a new wheel and a new water tank

For Vesa, a Craftmatic bench-riding plank

For Kessel, a Hackey Night shirt with his face

For Lee, I don't know - he was gone; left no trace.

The presents doled out, he returned to his sled

And the team suited up to fill others with dread

And I heard him exclaim, as away they all went

"When you get to the hospital, tell 'em Burke sent ya!"