Here's a Rag poet. You could not make it up.
Songs for Wayne Rooney
"My agent rang, the other day
He said to me, “I spoke to Man Citeh
They’ll give you, a load of cash
Some Marlie Reds, and a ropey brass.”
So I said, “That sounds fine,
But what about this famous club of mine
The blood-red shirt, the grand old ground
The name that’s sung, the world around
And all the greats that went before
Like Charlton, Edwards, Best and Law
Matt Busby Way, The Stretford end,
And football played the way the gods intend
The pride of playing with Giggs and Scholes
Living legends who still give me goals
The joy of gracing, that perfect park
(The pitch, not Ji, whose breakfast barks)
The trophy room, that glints and gleams
So bright the bitters see it in their dreams
The training ground, where youth excels
The treatment room, where Hargo dwells
A history that stands alone
The greatest manager the game has known
A dressing-room with great morale
And the world’s best fans (except for Cal)?”
“Erm,” he said, “I’ll call them back
And ask their boss, that fucking twat
Don’t go nowhere, while I ring Cook –”
“I can’t,” I said, “my ankle’s fooked.”
So I sat, and smoked a fag
And poked some not even attractive slag
Then my phone began to ring
It was Garry Cook, who’s embarrassing
“Son,” he said, “Sign for us
You’ll get a mil a fortnight, plus
You can bang, my old fat ma”
“Right,” I said, “That’s sold me, la.”
If someone asks, in future times
“Who was the daftest sod we ever signed?
Was it Tevez, who looked like a clout
And literally spat his dummy out?
Or Miller, say, or Kleberson?”
Say, “No, it was this lad from Everton
He left the club where he was meant to be
And he went by the name of Wayne Rooney
Wayne Rooney, Wayne Rooney
He went by the name of Wayne Rooney.”
