Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The left back cannot hear the gaffer;
Things fall apart; the referee cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The sky-blued tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some substitution is at hand;
Surely Berbatov is at hand.
Dimitar Berbatov! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: a waste Mancunian grass;
A shape with Charlton's body and the head of Keane,
A gaze blank and pitiless as a Neville,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Wind shadows of the indignant Djemba-Djemba, Fortune.
The floodlights drop again but now I know
That three decades of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough diamond, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Old Trafford to be born?
