the oppressive cold poetic license of failure

'twas the night of the third game of the semi finals and all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse wife.

(and how.)

for if that darling, sweet-tempered, happy, vibrant wife did stir, what a verbal lashing she most surely would incur.

because you see, dear friends, on this eve of the third game, our heros, the capitals, did not do our bidding.

in fact for three games, there has been no a-winning.

and thusly it seems that our protagonist kate shall go down to bed cursing her current fate.

so say a little prayer to the dear hockey gods that if they should spare her and merrily grant just four little triumphs,

she swears, doth she, that many thanks shall be given for she shall be spared many an evening of those loathed "harrumphs."