The professionals
get loads of salary,
They don’t care if they spit their teeth out on the ice;
They’re 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 don’t 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 game’s a lottery, a matter of luck.
They play their marker
like a bull plays the matador,
Though you’d have though it should be the other way around.

There lies the marker
as if he was dead,
So what? That’s his lookout, let him lie;
Don’t mess it up. Bull,
God wants the puck in the net,
God’s up there in the stands and won’t 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 they’ve still gone ahead five times already.

So let them get on with their
big-league intriguing,
And let them call hockey "the Canadian game";
It’s our turn now,
we’re looking forward to next time;
But is for our footballers... let’s hope they improve.