The Beautiful Game
It's hot in the desert. The sand seems to boil,
And the money is sluggish and slow.
There's nothing to gaze at but barrels of oil,
And so
In order to give us a pleasing intrigue,
We've decided to purchase the Premier League.
Hurricane victims? A cure for malaria?
Ah, these would be fiscal mistakes.
A mirage or two makes an emirate warier:
Two sheiks
And we'll show the extent of our piety, pity.
Here is a trillion quid, Manchester City.
A nomad won't go bad if funding a cause
Which takes out a stake in a pitch,
And wins (in its way) some vicarious wars.
Pretty rich,
We believe that the sure way to cure worldly torpor's
Investing in football, the playground of paupers.
We will win competitions, and every game
Will do justice to winners and losers:
The homeless, the helpless, the halt and the lame.
We're schmoozers,
Philanthropists blessed with a mission, a soul.
The most that we ask is that you score us a goal.
Allah and God, maybe Manitou too,
Are handing out happiness, saving the planet.
The starving and sickly depend upon you.
Can it
Be too much, boys, that you stick your best boot out?
And save us the shame of a penalty shoot-out?
