There once was a forward named Vranos,
With biceps designed to unman us,
So we slowed down his sprint,
Ridiculed him in print,
And then taught him what a beercan is.
Keen as a beagle,
Regal as an eagle,
With instincts primeval,
Sometimes slightly illegal,
Causing major upheaval -
Who else but Korngiebel!
Our right-back and manager Mark Grund,
Is an expert at leaving them stunned:
Make no mistake,
He strikes like a snake -
Rarely shot, and never outgunned.
Sweeper extraordinaire, a majestic wearer
Of Gunners regalia, strikes fear and terror,
Hero from another era, that’s Celso Pereira.
On surfaces grassy and turfy,
Calmness incarnate Mark Murphy
Doesn’t often see red,
Or miss with his head,
But he can make the whistle blow early.
Ivan Gazidis’
Thoroughbred speed has
Served to lead us
To a position indeed as
High as Mount Mead is.
Now no team can impede us
Showing what “To Succeed” is,
Let no-one mislead us:
It takes a lot to exceed us.
So light on his feet, Costantini,
In spite of the beer and linguini,
“The secret,“ he quips,
“Is all in the hips:
Black spandex teeny-weeny bikini!”
Out on the field, if you’re pursuing
The ball to goal, and thus outdoing
Even last year’s great debuting;
If you’re the man to be subduing
An Argentine who is kung fuing;
And meanwhile your boat needs crewing,
(Not to mention ladies wooing),
But you wonder if you’re overdoing
All those experiments in brewing,
Then you know that you are Drewing.
There once was a rookie named Yost,
Whose wheels could spin faster than most -
When opponents went wide,
Tried to beat the offside,
We’d all cry “That forward is toast!”
Once upon a midday dreary, while I sprinted weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious divot and pot-holes galore,
While I stumbled, almost gassing, all the time he was harassing,
Always so intent on passing, passing through to help us score.
”That is Victor”, I muttered, “inside he hears the lion’s roar,
The thunder’s boom, and plenty more.”
Up front there’s a sovereign ruler,
The king of the dribble, Avdullah -
First he puts on the pressure,
(Like the game against Cheshire),
Then he dribbles all over the cooler.
The committee for the Nobel Prize
Should soon consider Eric Wise,
A man in whom we see arise
A steely look within the eyes.
That seems to say, in poor disguise,
To all the forwards that he spies
“Get ready to say your goodbyes”,
(And all that that short phrase implies).
So listen, Greenwich, let’s devise
A Most Wanted list (not the FBI’s!) -
Top that list, we must advise
With Eric’s name, it’s no surprise.
Whenever their right side’s inhibited,
Dizzy, tired, blocked and prohibited,
When they’re fully disheartened,
You can say they’ve been “Martined”,
Which means that their options are limited.
It's not the shot that's fired like a missile,
Nor his game on the left and the right,
We know he will run till the ref’s last whistle
And can smoke every Puma in sight -
None of these skills is quite so essential,
Not even that lovely first touch,
As the wines Johnny brings, with all their potential,
And his cellar we value so much.
It's a game of two halves, so they say,
And Christian is much the same way,
The primary reason:
He missed half the season,
And then he put on a display.
The center circle was Joe's
Until he up and disappeared,
And went off on maternity!
And so we ad-libbed the set plays
While waiting for our most revered -
It seemed like an eternity.
Then he returned, with eyes ablaze,
From pride and lack of sleep,
And helped our fine fraternity
To ten repeated glory days,
Meanwhile we wonder why the sweep,
Perhaps it is paternity!
The forecast was fine till some bozo felled Seiler,
Our pillar of strength, and none versatiler,
Essence of zeal, greyhound unleashed,
Now on hills that are greener: he’s unwound in the East.
The scourge of the left, Ken Malloy,
Has multiple tools to employ -
Dummy, one-two,
Stampeding through,
And a mindset that cries out “Destroy!”
Zero awareness, chaos expected,
Horrible handling, ball’s misdirected,
Can’t beat a man, tackles are late,
Wins it by luck, but can’t kick it straight.
Crosses are hopeless, corners are worse,
Often offside, and boy can he curse,
Ball pushed too far, byline’s exceeded,
Slow coming back, goals are conceded.
Not very fit, drinks far too much,
Can’t keep it up, but fantastic third touch,
Draws yellow cards, penalties appealed,
Warm up the subs! - Fergal’s afield.
Paul Carroll's a player with flair,
But turnouts increasingly rare -
If the rumors are true,
He’s bidding adieu,
And could soon vanish into thin air.
Though he tried to be ready, it wasn't to be,
Brooksie’s hoping for next year, but no guarantee.
His commitment’s impressive, at games far and near,
As he turns up to cheer us (and sample the beer).
There once was an artiste named Steve,
Whom Broadway would gladly receive -
His screaming ability
And falling agility
Have been difficult acts to believe.