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The Ballad Of Loktionov

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If you stare into Andrei Loktionov's eyes, you can see his soul crying.

Bruce Bennett - Getty Images

(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.