To a far horizon,
across the sea of mud,
a football is firmly kicked
with resounding thud.
Tackles flying to an fro,
jostling for the ball,
the crowd roars its disapproval
as a player to mud doth fall.
He rolls about on the ground
as though he's close to death,
and the manager can do nought
save hold his bloody breath.
A free kick is given,
the protests cast aside,
so the men must line the wall
as the striker tests his stride.
He curls it to the left
but the goalie dives to right,
and the home crowd bemoan their team
as the manager's put to flight.
He'll be out of work within the hour
and the players will be heard to say,
that the blame for their awful season
was not the way they play.
Four million plus the earn,
and for this they grasp and whine,
'tis not our fault we're crap' they say
'he was simply past his prime'.
We need new blood they whisper
a new manager will set to rights
the errors of the passing man
who could not make gold from shite.