The professionals get loads of salary, They donít care if they spit their teeth out on the ice; Theyíre paid super dough, thousands and thousands, Even if they lose and even if they draw. These players are crafty, they go for the body, Thump opponents in the teeth and donít give a damn; But they wind up getting their own legs done in, And get a walking stick instead of a hockey stick. To the professionals, those desperate fellows, The gameís a lottery, a matter of luck. They play their marker like a bull plays the matador, Though youíd have though it should be the other way around. There lies the marker as if he was dead, So what? Thatís his lookout, let him lie; Donít mess it up. Bull, God wants the puck in the net, Godís up there in the stands and wonít let you off.                                                 The professionals get paid through all sorts of channels Big amounts, little amounts, into the bank; But our Russian lads stay on our Russian money And theyíve still gone ahead five times already. So let them get on with their big-league intriguing, And let them call hockey "the Canadian game"; Itís our turn now, weíre looking forward to next time; But is for our footballers... letís hope they improve.
© Gerald Stanton Smith. Translation, 1984