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Hordes o’ screaming travelling Manc’s
Agog, up in The Gods stood giving thanks
When that last gasp header crept in on full-time
Appeared mysteriously dumb-struck
At a partner, girl-friend, wife, sister, mum, or chuck
Ogling a blue Adonis, as he crossed the half-way line.
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West Londoners going absolutely ape
At the cruel hand dealt them by fate
Up in The Shed…about to leave the hallowed ground
Turned their sullen heads around aghast
As this vision glides across the shimmering grass
Eerie silence o’ their stadia, enhancing sight profound.
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At the entrance to the players tunnel, by the pitch
A good-looking sort mouthed…”Cor…he’s proper fit”,
As her fifteen minutes, Andy Warhol deemed them…calls
She’ll social media selfies, ”Yes folks, that’s him there”,
Tis a nailed-on cert, drooling pals desire she share…
A nonchalant Mateo Kovacic…jogging past her in his smalls.