I Am Both Good Hockey Players

I am both good hockey players. Modelling protective gear with sharp ice-blades. We play hockey in the pond. Hairspray helmet to slow the rate of death. For the hockey ball is hard. I hit it thirty-three meters and directly at your soul. You saw your soul got rather scuffed up. Now your soul is slow. It can no longer ignite. I sport a blank upon my face, and a silken loincloth under my breezer pants. Meeting myself in an all-girl hockey bracket, I like how I look. But no one else digs me until they learn how good I am with a stick. Then they all run forth and flatter me, assuming I’m a boxer because of my outfit. I joined a charitable organization and transformed it into a maternity gang. “Boy, I should have worn a sleeve,” I quip. “Wearing a sleeve is smart indeed,” fawn my followers. Newborns continuously drop from my crotch as I skate around the rink, doing slapshots. Everyone, attend and observe. Cheer!—you’re fans, after all. Come on, Bryan, put your hands together for your alter ego, whom you have become. I don’t think I’ll ever stop gazing into this hockey lake. Good game, good game.