We have the finest
of our team
battling it out
against the opposition.
The score-board is tide at par
likewise is the ball-possession
So we’re skilling it out
show-casing talent
we never displayed at training
and with every chance, we’re gaining
we’re shooting at the goal-keeper
so hard,
the guy would swear it’s raining
his hands are paining
SB is releasing
thunder-ranges
far from the 18th area
One thing’s for certain
after this match,
there will be a burial
In the middle
we have a soldier
a general who was built
for matches and composure
Neat passes
compelling his bosses
To get up off their asses
and raise their glasses
Behind the strikers
we got Christopher
the philosopher
Now, Christopher is French
but there’s a player sitting out
who’s just too good for the bench
But he doesn’t believe
in making four matters
out of metaphors that
don’t even matter, therefore
he’s keeping his cool
keeping his sound
keeping the faith that
he’ll get onto the ground
keeping the hope
anticipation in the crowd
keeping the vision that
one day
we will be crowned
Eventually, it’s hopeless
his virtue nessacitates
Coaches say
‘warm-up, the stuff the crowd long awaits’…
The philosophy of
‘pistols for small matters,
deadly guns for large’
when I get inside the pitch
I’m gonna show them
who’s in charge
Before long,
opposition suffers violence
at the mercy of
his feet
it was raining
not too long ago
but now, they’re feeling heat
he, be distributing passes
so discreetly
they’ve never seen them before
neither have they heard
the only thing they witnessed was
the net rattling for the third
It’s a goal!
again
and it’s piercing through their soul
defenders pointing fingers
because of the chances that he stole
So, apparently,
the coach’s name was ‘Patrick’
He’s giving him a thumbs-up
for what is now a hat-trick
you should’ve seen him,
player so fantastic
The rest was poetry
in motion
with each pass
we caused commotion
when the flood-gates were done
the whole pitch
looked like an ocean.
