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.
