Alan Shearer, King of the Rodeo

His boots are made of leather
And now he's earned his spurs,
A shirt of finespun cotton
And Levis 501s.
A bolo tie of splendour
He don't wear no cravat,
Grabs his cream fringed jacket
To match his stetson hat.
Out on the plains
That's where he struts his stuff,
Roping in a steer,
No one quite so tough.
All through the West
His famous name is heard
England's great sharpshooter
The goalscoring wizard.
It's Alan Shearer
King of the rodeo,
Oh Alan Shearer
King of the Rodeo.

Iago

"Demand me nothing: what you know, you know:
From this time forth I never will speak word."
I sprung hopeful from the guilded La Mascian shrine,
A Piedmontese holiday
A fine tour from the Adriatic to Castellón.
But here I sit my talents rotten
Bathing in the grim Solent
A career where nothing substantial did I provide
Where no one expects, no jewels in my crown.
Cast out from Iberia, the alps did not sustain,
So now this rotten isle my home!
O! Jerusalem!
My sword lay dormant, unclasped for too long
Today my final chance at gold.

Inside Alan Shearer's Mind

Haiku for Grzegorz Rasiak (An idea stolen)

Martin Jol was mad
When Spurs paid three million
Not a single goal.

The Ballad of Jeff Kenna

Sucking on a sour sweet
He never looks at ease,
The sun is always in his eyes,
That pass he never sees.
He's played alongside Shearer
At Rovers and Southampton too
And now he's moved to Florida
To start his life anew.