To The Rescue
As fat as a panda and fit as a flea,
Boris María arrives at the club,
To save us, United, from ig-no-min-y,
Like a barrel of Best turning up at a pub
Where the furniture’s rickety, bar is awash.
There’s mould on the punters, fur in the pipes,
Perfect for Latin types talking up tosh,
Ripe for some Bunters to come out with ‘Cripes!’
Ángel di Johnson, a kicker supreme,
Has come to the auction to put in a bid,
To put fire and foolery into the team,
To follow the dream that he’s had as a kid –
To make it a gastronaut’s dream of success,
With seats at the tables for anyone rich,
To clear out the stables and clean up the mess,
To keep any locals away from the pitch.
Ten years will fly by as he heads for the goal,
As he rolls down the wing, and punts in a cross,
But the whole shebang’s headed down one giant hole,
And the name of the game that he plays is Dead Loss.
The pub will be shut, and the beer taste of turps,
And darts will be banned after dodgy behaviour –
Until then let us cheer on a right pair of twerps,
And credit them both with becoming Our Saviour.
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