Ghost Leafs Go!

Tune in Thursday at half past seven,

Our young lads, Leafs all,

Get a boost from the heavens.

Embraced by a vision to bring Lord Stanley's cup home,

I thought it was past time,

To rewrite this poem.

An energy took over the ice rink that day,

Not Maple Leaf Gardens, 

Scotiabank Arena you say?

To any true fan, something strange was beginning,

That made you believe, 

"By God boys - we'll be winning".

Look down in that corner, it was uncanny, 

"It's Keon" they whispered,

Big M, Tiger and Lanny.

Back on the blueline, King Borje flew,

Number seven, Tim Horton,

Resplendent in blue.

Sundin was smiling as Sittler appeared,

With Dougie beside him, 

Lips curled as he sneered,

The face-offs are ours boys, this game we can win,

Palmateer offered his net up, 

"Put Bower in!"

A dark figure appeared to step onto the ice,

The Canadiens knew, 

This guy was not so nice.

Ice chips flying, full stride with no care.

Fans knew in an instant, 

That Wendell was there.

High up in the rafters, hovering there,

The audience peered skyward,

Was Foster up there?

Have at it young bloods, 

The legends did say,

We're skating beside you - at least for today.

The arena was hushed as if cut with a scythe,

Just behind the bench... 

The ghosts of Conn and Staff Smythe. 

The outcome uncertain, that we all know,

But the faithful will be chanting,

Ghost Leafs, Go!