Upon a glassy stage,
a Panther goes to sleep,
to melt away, such sporting rage,
the other five do weep,
but Adam’s roar will echo,
all over Motorpoint,
where warmth, can be found on snow,
fond memories are conjoint,
with accidental footed blade,
he becomes an athlete martyr,
black gold and whites, say well played,
to premature departer,
a shirt with 47,
now hangs in locker room,
with Johnson, now in heaven,
he can now in soul, resume.