A pile of money
is the pay for professionals;
They spit on body checks, by spitting out teeth.
They are paid real dough,
in the thousands;
It does not matter whether it is a loss or a draw.

The player is sly;
making it look like a body check
He kicks your leg and elbows your teeth.
He breaks a leg and uses
the stick for a crutch;
To the desperate fellows the game is a lottery...

 
 
 
 
 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 

The judge of the pros
is a criminal himself;
Boxing and beating he does not consider an offense.
 
 
 

But not long ago
their strategy
burst like a bubble;
They were beaten
at their own game,
with more speed.

We sing in Montreal
to the professionals.
Let them murder each other, not us...
 
 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 

Professionals get paid
from different channels;
Their bank accounts are swelling,
While our boys
for little pay
Have beaten them for the fifth time...

Let the higher leagues
weave their intrigues,
Let hockey be called the Canadian game.
We call the tune
until the next meeting;
In soccer our boys are even better.