[McG]

“Mighty Mavi has missed out” by me and my AI.

---

The mood was tense in Rogers Place, the clock was ticking down,
The Oilers trailed by one, and every face wore that old frown.
A power play was coming, though, and hope began to rise—
For Shelbyville has learned to dream with fire in its eyes.

The puck was dropped, the cycle set, the crowd began to roar,
As Hyman dove and held like he’d never done before.
Tenderness, he fed the point, Boo-Boo unleashed a blast—
But somehow, through a maze of legs, the puck slid wide and past.

A groan rolled through the building, but belief refused to die;
For everyone could see who circled back into the play.
He gathered speed, crossovers eight, he gathered all the noise—
And suddenly the rink belonged to beige man, not isle’s boys.

McDavid crossed the blue line with that non defensive glide,
The kind that makes defenders pray and goalies shrink inside.
A deke, a burst, a cut so sharp it nearly split the ice—
And all the greasers leaned forward, breath held in a vise.

He dangled past the first man, left the second in the dust,
And now the goalie squared to him with trembling pads and trust.
For legends write their stories in the moments built for lore—
And this was one that stinkville swore would end up as a score.

He wound, he paused, he snapped a shot—
A laser, clean and true.
But somehow, by some cursed design, the goalie’s blocker flew.
The puck deflected skyward, spinning like a dying star,
And landed harmless in the corner, just a foot too far.

The horn did not erupt. The fans did not ascend.
The magic fizzled quietly, a glumness without an end.
And when the final buzzer came, jerseys hit the ice like fate—
For even heroes miss their mark, and sometimes it’s too late.

No miracle for Greaserville, no storybook tonight.
McDavid skated off the ice beneath the pale rink light.
And though Draisaitl loves him still, and always will, no doubt—
There was no joy in Stinktown
Mighty Pissy had shot wide.

--