A Striker’s Like A Poet
¶ 1
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A striker’s like a poet;
(s)he’ll* use the slightest touch,
he’ll thigh, or chest, or toe it,
whisper, do, with little, much.
He’s not the midfield playwright.
He is no defender hack,
nor critic-keeper, each night
mocking others who attack.
He’ll be the Game a minute,
then, the next, he’ll disappear,
but, if your side’s to win it,
listen: it’s his name you’ll hear.
A striker’s like a poet.
He’s economy defined.
He’ll speed it up, or slow it,
get ahead, get in behind.
A striker’s like a poet;
brilliance, he whom we’ll excuse
from goal-drought desert silence,
seeking service from a Muse.
A striker’s like a poet;
he’s the one won’t join the herd,
and changes what his readers do
with just one uttered word.
A striker’s like a poet
we, the many, wish to be.
The Goal. The Stand. The Show It,
Show It, Show It On TV.
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