You wore the colours well and bravely, friend.
The suit? Well, not so much.
You never found the answers in the end.
Confused players, out of touch.
Communication lacking, they all said.
Unless ripping the ref.
The team you once captained, for which you bled,
looked through you as though deaf.
Now you're packing up your ties and your rings.
The Line-O-Matic's still.
Oh, how the ignoble departure stings
your instinct for the kill.
The boss has taken over in your place;
your friend and successor.
You were falling fast in the playoff race,
a poor-choice transgressor.
Your plumbers will be sad their ice is cut.
Kostopoulos will sit.
When down a goal, the stars must bust their gut.
Each job each man must fit.
No more will Habs so softly cede their zone.
A new system will rule
while you clear out your space and leave alone
like the last day of school.
Too bad things didn't work out well for you.
You were a great player.
You win some, then sometimes you lose a few.
Hey! Carbo for mayor?