Leave a comment on verse 2 0
Lampooned and mocked in acid prose
By scribes who’ve never kicked a ball,
Competing, straining to compose
The sourest diatribe of all.
“What right has he to share a stage
With Lampard, Gerrard, Becks and Cole?”
Screamed headlines on the printed page,
Describing him as “Sven’s Own Goal.”
The coach has made a grave mistake.
He is no asset to the team.
A total waste of time to make
This journeyman play with the cream.
Leave a comment on verse 3 0
And so it passed, this tousled man
Eclipsed the likes of Becks and Lamps,
Instrumental to the plan
To turn the English into champs.
Beneath the burning German sun,
While others wilted in the heat,
He’d tackle, surge, inspire and run
When other men could not compete.
The English spirit exemplified
By one who was not English-born,
He single-handed turned the tide
To heroes all, where once was scorn.
Leave a comment on verse 4 0
And will those self same scribes heap praise
And willingly hyperbolise
His masterful world-class displays
To try and win the master prize?
With contrite pen, will they admit
Their savage prose was off the mark?
Or, like a preening budgie, flit
To this new hero of the park?