twas a month before zones start, and all through the club
not a curler was smoking, or drunk in the pub
instead they were practicing shots with great care,
with hopes that select patches soon would be theirs

the front end was working on sweeping drills hard,
with visions of getting all shots by the gaurd
my third wearing short-sleeves, and i in a sweater
had started a skins game to see who was better

when over on sheet 6, a rock thrown so hard
that it turned into bits when it met with the gaurd
i needed to know how the guy threw as such,
as well how he managed to hurl so much

the florescent lights were like humming white poles
which gave lustre of mid-day to objects below,
and the closer i drew to the man on sheet 6
brought strong smells of vodka and cheap pretzel sticks

with a grin like an corpse, and breath that smelled rot,
i knew in a moment.. it was 'the mascot'
he called for his drink with a terrible noise
and it was soon brought by young latino boys

"now, Diego! now, Donto! now, Pablo and Voonlo!
On, Carlos! on Celso! on, Dora and Bruno!
bring me more booze or you'll be in trouble,
with booze, like in curling, i only do doubles"

with that he passed out, so i thought i'd approach
and ask if he wanted to serve as our coach!
though unconscious and drunk, he managed to say
"i will, if you give me 3 meals a day"

and so that ends my tale of how we began
and how we were able to find such a man
to lead us to loss after loss after loss,
he's a hell of a guy, but a mess as a boss