Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the “Pitt” from goal to goal,
I thank whatever gods may be
The Pens are still in a 3 game hole.

In the fell clutch of Crosby’s trance
We have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings and rants
Our heads are bloodied, but still proud

Beyond this place of boos and jeers
Looms but the Horror of the ‘Burgh
If we can make it through with beer
The Black and Orange yet will surge

It matters not that Malkin’s great
Or that that Marc-Andre stops some goals
We are the Masters of the Skate
And o'er the Penguins shall we roll.