Once he was a subtle fist, extremely well disguised,
Belonging to a genius who once was eulogised.
And once he was an honest man, complete with turnip’s head,
Ridiculed around the land for everything he said.
He’s often been the lottery of penalty despair,
Bottled shots that dash all hopes, whilst flying through the air.
Once he was a mild young man, spread-eagled on the ground,
Who swung a weak and lazy leg, and fury did abound.
Once he was a flukey lob that soared o’er Seaman’s head,
Completely unintentional, or so the papers said.
And now he is a referee who spotted Terry’s block,
Angering a nation with a minute on the clock.
Scapegoats help to form a wall, deflecting fierce shots wide,
For England never can be beaten by a better side.