December 24, 2011
‘Twas the night before Christmas; all tickets were sold
For Elland and Loftus and old Vicarage Road.
The press rooms were wired and ready to air
In hopes that King Kenny might break down and swear.
The Reds were nestled so snug in their suites,
All happy and eager, except for Luis.
His reputation sullied, mood turned to black;
Eight games he must sit for racial attack.
And over in Paris, there arose such a ruckus,
Cried PSG coaches, “They’re going to f— us!”
Qataris forsaking wisdom for cash,
In Kombouaré, not seeing a name with panache
To Castile, whose white knights again were run through,
As Pep and his mob rocked the Bernabeu.
And thus did the Special One’s ire provoke,
Though there was no eye to hand, so lovely to poke.
Looking to FIFA, excuses were tired, retread and lame,
But spouting them freely, Old Sepp stayed the same.
Louder than wolves, how his critics they howl,
While he lies, and dissembles, and at the British does scowl!
“Poor losers! Abusers! Disillusioned and vain!
From Triesman to Coe, Not a one has a brain!”
Thus, to the edge of the desert and the land of the Steppes
The hosting’s been given, and the rest have all wept.
Like piss in the wind and pie in the sky,
The bitching and moaning, and crying, “Oh Why?”,
Has left the Brits and the Yanks all feeling blue,
Predicting heat stroke, no-shows, and race riots, too.
And then, in a sound bite, it all comes to a head
and no-one believes what the Swiss boss has said.
Should f-word or n-word, or more dire be heard,
Just proffer a hand and it never occurred.
Now then at Christmas, while the remainder do sit,
The Prem and Championship increase their remit
Suarez and Terry likely both will appeal,
And wounds slashed wide open may never quite heal.
But Rio will Tweet! and Anton won’t matter,
Fergie will grumble; and Keane-o will chatter.
His droll little mouth runs on and how,
Happy as ever to cause a big row.
Yet, not far away, just a hop, skip and jump,
The disagreement at City is the one which holds trump.
Tevez’ work rate, his untiring hustle,
Give no carte blanche for a manager’s tussle
Though Anzhi, Milan and Paris beckon and call,
His pride has left him no ground to give all.
Therefore, Manchester Town a hero now needs,
Be it City or United whose colours he bleeds.
Over land and cross sea, in a Lear Jet will he ride,
Posh wife and fair children close by his side?
Title now won as was the design;
A new challenge, not money, for that he will sign
The time draws near when the window yawns wide,
and Sir Fergie might choose to add to his side.
Becks is old and he’s slow, lacking all pace,
But his touch is still there, and evergreen grace.
So, he smiles on camera and gives us his plea,
It’s been a long time, but United needs me.
Carrington’s halls echo empty, with no-one to deck them
A leader is needed… so why not sign Beckham?
A Visit From Saint David (Beckham)? by Martin Palazzotto is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.