Reporter: Jordin, you play such a high-energy style. How do you unwind after a tough game?

Tootoo: Poetry.

Reporter: Really? Who do you like to read? I’m a big Ted Hughes fan, myself.

Tootoo: Not read, my good man. Write. Here’s a little something I whipped up after Game 2:

A Sonnet Upon Spring
Born in Manitoba, raised First Nations;
Taught by dad to hunt, fish and skate,
And from opponents to engender hate;
I’m quite happy to knock your face in.
It’s Playoff time; we contend for the Cup
Of Lord Stanley, a man I never knew;
Against Detroit’s Wings of Red, not Blue:
The ultimate victor will hold it up.
Things don’t look so good now, I’m afraid;
But our youth will carry us to the end.
I hope that when I am as old as Chelly,
I won’t have to ply this checking trade;
My relaxed schedule will only portend
Reruns of Coed Confidential on the telly.

Or, how about this lovely clerihew:

Pavel Datsyuk
That Russian kook
Drinks milk straight from the carton
Endlessly listening to Dolly Parton

Double dactyls more your style? Try this one:

Higgeldy-Piggeldy
Valtteri Filppula
Enjoys a fine sauna
As a good Finn should

But once in a while,
Misunderstandingly,
He sweats to the oldies
As only Simmons would

If all else fails, I find that the trusty haiku always sends me right to sleep:

Darren McCarty:
Love affair with the bottle
Pathetic old goon

And what would a poetry recital be without a limerick?

Old Kirk Maltby’s a native of Guelph
And secretly loves to touch himself
He dreams of learning to score
And jacks it more and more
Fantasizing about the top shelf