During every match that Portugal played
Figo’s face was always the same
Frustrated, moody and forever dismayed
For every second of the game.
No matter if creating wondrous magic
Or making an inch-perfect pass
His expression always looked so tragic
The adult in a childish farce.
Everytime he was tackled
Or a shot of his went awry
His talent was painfully shackled
And the game would pass him by.
Each time the Portugese scored
Fans would explode in passion
Yet Figo looked unmoved and bored
Not following the popular fashion.
When he saw that he was subbed
Perfectly off the pitch he trudged
His stony stare shows it rubbed
That emotion would not be budged.
Figo sang the anthem fiercely and loud
Still with his hypnotic glare
Captaining the country he must have been proud
A responsibility he could bear.
For Portugal it ended in tears
Beaten by a Greek team on song
But Figo’s mood predicted the fears
As if he knew what would happen all along.
Now each exhausting, draining game is done
In a tournament where results were strange
Winning or losing treated as one
Figo’s face did not change.