(Sung to the tune of "Lisa Simpson's Union Strike Song")

Come gather 'round children, it is high time ye learned,

The burden of Andrei, and how his dreams have burned.

* * *

Taken out of Russia, only one team he knows,

Though they'll never play him, wasting talent with glee.

Unless a bad limb or an appendix explodes,

Broods Andrei in Manchester, a ward of hockey.

* * *

He gets a chance to play for it all, "Oh! What luck!"

But he'll learn the hard way there is no "team" in "we,"

His back stabbed with a Dremel, and not on the Cup,

Broods Andrei in Manchester, a ward of hockey.

* * *

"Alas, to the Motherland. They won't interdict,"

He cheers. "Return like Malkin, Semyon, and Kovi."

Forsook there as well, like a bad Hollywood script,

Broods Andrei in Manchester, a ward of hockey.

* * *

So among all the Monarchs, a King without pay,

Like Sisyphus in Hades, penitentiary.

He, more than anyone, hopes for a league one day,

Broods Andrei in Manchester, a ward of hockey.

* * *

He'll play day and night by the Merrimack River,

Andrei is the cattle, so he has no power.