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.
Misha Allen. Translation, 1970