Football Poets

Gianni Infantino

FIFA presidents, hey
What a revolting stench
They leave in their wake
Deep in the foul sewers
Of their chronic corruption
Once again notoriety follows
Them around like
The dirtiest sheet
That can never be cleaned
Gianni Infantino
Once again drags the
Beautiful Game down
To its lowest common denominator
Billion dollar notes
Flashing across his eyes
So let’s sell the family silver
Dole out those shares
To all and sundry
Why don’t we just put
The For Sale up sign?
Cheapening the World Cup
And dropping it down to
Its tawdriest depths
And we thought Joao Havelange
Was a dubious spiv
An evil shadow
Hovering over the money pot
Obsessed with only his
Own image
Stuck in the trough
Of football’s bottomless
Pit of finance
And now history repeats itself again
Gianni Infantino
And his crooked henchmen
Are accomplices to the crime
It’s time to hand over
The World Cup to
The Dow Jones market
How low can he go?
Completely destroying
Football’s proudest heritage
With thick wads of
Monumental mountains of money
Dropping the game into
Its smelliest cesspit
Many moons ago, though
Sir Stanley Rous
From shores of Blighty
British through and through
Made his sterling contribution to
The world of football
Into a comfortable haven
Where all was well and good
Respectability ensured
But then there was Havelange
Never the man for the job
Doubted at first then loathed
Before Sepp Blatter
Got his grubby hands on
the FIFA tiller
And suddenly
The Beautiful Game
Had sunk to the bottom
Of the sea,
Right down to the Plankton
We thought we could trust
Blatter
But only Ronnie Knight
Could have done a better job
Fleecing the game of its
Natural goodness
Blatter, he battered
The World Cup into submission
And now we’re lumbered
With a shifty member of the Mafia
Infantino, yes you heard right
The name itself suggests
Childish behaviour
Gianni a penny for your thoughts
Or maybe a million
What madness possessed you
Some crazy paroxysm of stupidity
Blinded you
When you must have known
That the very purity of the World Cup
Would be stained with
Bloodthirsty fat cats
Drowning helplessly
And down into the
Darkest drains
Of vile venality
But fear not Gianni
Of course
Your change of heart
Would leave you with
The sharpest thorn of guilt
Haunting your sleep
That ultimate volte face
A pang of conscience
Now that must have
Played on your mind, Infantino
Since football would never
Ever forgive you
For this crackpot idea
That almost stabbed
The Beautiful Game in the back
From which there would
Be no recovery
So Gianni, keep your
Bright ideas and ideologies
To yourself
Nobody is even remotely interested
In four years time
The centenary year of the World Cup
Will blossom and flourish
With the cream of football’s crop
Best players and managers
Undoubtedly so

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