If Man Utd liked hip hop

If Man U liked hip hop
And didn't have a game
Surely they'd dress Danny Welbeck
Up like Big Daddy Kane.
Maybe make them all sing
Ashley Young might go far
He's on backing vocals
The next big RnB star.
Now Michael Carrick's a toughie
He's got two left feet
They asked Phil Jones to breakdance
And he smashed up his seat.
Ryan Giggs is a stalwart
Every trophy he has won
But he's got a few problems
And surely the bitch is one.

What Manchester United Losing 6-1 At Home Has Done To Football, OR, Elegy To The 1990s. (With utter contempt for myself and apologies [again] to William Butler Yeats)

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?