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Wayne Rooney, tragedian,
His agent, a whey-faced loon of a Shakespeare,
Ferguson, a beggared sot,
we, the poor fools, hung by our scarves,
our woolly hats, the coxcombs.
Tribal loyalties are a playground curse cast upon us,
a gaggle of geese, following the ball,
without an eye to our position.
Leave a comment on verse 2 0
What he gave us, in that time
between the scoring and the restart,
that time out of time,
that time to rise up in joy or anguish,
is lost, lost in mockery,