'Twas the night of the NBA draft, all through Knicks heaven
not a uniform number was settled, not even number 7
The jerseys were hung by the lockers with care,
in hopes that Derek Fishers assistants soon would be there.

The city dancers were nestled all snug in their beds,
while visions of the groovy fan Harry cast spells in their heads.
And BRIGGS in his 'fade, and knicksbaby in his NYK cap,
had just consulted trade checker to monitor the salary cap.

When out on the wire there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the laptop I flew like a flash,
read about the trade, and learned of Uncle Phil's stash.

Like the moon on the breasts of curvaceous Alba chicks
gave the glow of optimism to our acquisition of second round picks,
when, who to my unbelieving ears should be on the phone,
but a coveted gifted point guard named Jose Calderon.

You my friend have a lot of time on your hand. Never the less I like it.