Championship Blues

There's only one last eagle
To grace this windy isle
And it lives in Lakeland
And never Selhurst Park.
And to my knowledge,
There has never been
A single wild lion
Stalking round these parts.

A clash of nature's finest
Beast and bird at one
How truly unfortunate
It occurs in Division One.

The Protracted Saga of Joleon Lescott to Manchester City (With Apologies To Samuel Taylor Coleridge)

In Liverpool did Joleon
A stately transfer-request decree:
Where Mersey, the sacred river, ran
Through canals made by man
    Down to the Irish sea.
So twice four miles of fertile ground
Where stands and concourse were girdled round:
And there were floodlights bright with sinuous filament,
Where beamed many lights illuminatory;
And here Eastlands ancient as the colliery,
Enfolding sunny spots of glory.

    But oh! that deep romantic river which slanted
    Down from Manchester to Goodison!
    A savage place! as monied and soulless
    As e'er beneath a blue moon was howled
    By men wailing for Colin Bell!
    And from this totem, with ceaseless mediocrity seething,
    As if this city in fast money sacks were awaking,
    A mighty saga momently was forced:
    Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
    Pound notes and coins vaulted like rebounding hail,
    Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail:
    And 'mid these dancing guineas at once and ever
    It flung up momently the Mersey river.
    Four miles square with a mazy motion
    Through Stretford and Warburton the Mersey river ran,
    Then reached the Cavern and penniless Goodison,
    And bathed royal blue in golden trim:
    And 'mid this tumult Joleon heard from far
    Sir Alex Ferguson prophesying war!

    The shadow of the Etihad
    Floated midway on the waves;
    Where was heard the jingling copper
    From the men who're paid.
It was a miracle of rare proportion,
Etihad sprung forth with the price!
    A brummie with a pot of gold
    In a vision he once saw:
    It was an Arabian man,
    And on the contract he signed,
    Singing of the Champions League.
    Could I provoke David Moyes
    His harsh words and hate,
    To such a deep pocket 'twould win me,
That with music loud and long,
I would play in the Champions League,
The Etihad! those sky blue turrets!
And everyone shall see me there,
And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
Rooney's red eyes, his brand new hair!
Weave a circle round me thrice,
And close mine eyes to win the ball,
For Joleon on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise.

Spazialismo

Sons of Rosario
Born in separate centuries
Recalibrated European space.
Manifesto blanco, a rupture
In the canvas
A rupture open to oblivion
Manifesto blaugrana, the result of Concetto spaziele,
La fine di Dio.*
On that green field space made manifest
Another green field, diminutive D10S
Footsteps in knifemarks.


Notes:
*http://c48743.r43.cf3.rackcdn.com/Images/2010_06/29/0024/888175/Temp_232207af-52cd-4d32-a135-c0e5ad5c31e9_36c340a1-e7de-4a29-90a9-8091c04ad599_338.Jpeg

Tanka for the recently sacked manager.

How am I to see
Gold plated or silver lined?
How am I to grasp
These bright eternal tributes?
My trophy cabinet bare.

Tchoyi

There is a new breed of footballer
Beyond eccentricism.
Unlike Barthez, Higuita, Zidane
Whose streak was clear to see.
These players seem to be
Certain liabilities
Half grasping that maverick streak.
Can anyone turly confirm
The optimum position of Somen Tchoyi?
Nay.
His half stumbling bursts
Raw power, loose canon,
Far more noble than those polished rambles
Of Luiz and Eboue.
A throwback to the golden age of mental football
An Asprilla without the insidious agression
Less tabloid than Gazza.
Tchoyi, the embodiment of the half nuts
Begging the question 'What is he doing?'
Even to fans of other teams.
Tchoyi, Paintsil, Bullard
Lovable mediocrity.