I am the minstrel of the Holy Flannel. I try not to sing when there’s nothing to tell. The Canadiens suffer from temporal trouble, They have no goaltender in which they may dwell. Two promising keepers should be with the Rocket by now, Yet the one who is ready is starting to fall. We may juggle the lines with precision somehow, But a withering goalie cannot be shielded at all. We may call on the saints and the heavens above, Wear scapulars, amulets, cover our skin, Still the empty nets leave a bitterness of love, Orphans of goaltenders, afraid we can’t win. We have talent—our colors are arcs of the sky, Yet the flaw at the crease is beginning to rot. All our efforts to rise and to challenge on high, All our dreams of conquest are coming to naught. Brave, worthy knights of the Holy Flannel Build in the forefield with courage and zeal, While at the net we are crushed in the channel, A goal once scored vanishes—lost, unreal. And we’re forced to reclaim what was barely acquired, Like Sisyphus bound to his merciless role, From a burden too heavy, unnaturally wired, Each surge of momentum dissolves in the hole. Though the drive is alive, all must still be rebuilt. Friends, we have nothing to blame on the sky. No wrath of the heavens has earned us this guilt, Yet we ache for a ladder to help us climb by. To escape from this pit that weakens our frame. Our cerberus guards lack celestial aid. Our valiant heroes labor on, just the same, To restore the ascent where sweet effort is made. The climb tastes of honey, though suffering stays. No one may complain—it is pain we must bear. I am the minstrel of the Holy Flannel. I try not to sing empty words into air. But sometimes I look toward the heavens’ span, And a bitter sigh slips free—unplanned.
