And for Accounting Purposes, My Name Is Ronaldo “Ronaldinho Gaucho” de Assís Moreira
Ronaldinho, now Barça’s a fetter,
Has been told that Man City is better,
And would happily go
For the same rate as Jo,
Meaning roughly ten million per letter.
No One Is Being Called a Queen in This Argument
Now, whomever one happens to play for,
One can hardly expect that one’s payor
Will concede that Milan,
Having taken his pawn,
Can proceed to take his Adebayor.
Frank Lampard, Contemplative, Dines on the Deck of His Yacht
When he breathes in the steam from his pasta
In the cool Amalfitana Costa
Does he think, “To live here
I can’t wait one more year”?
Or, “Mourinho! Piantala! Basta!”
Cristiano Among the Philosophers
In the clear light of reason, to weigh all,
And conclusively—brilliantly—say all,
Is a goal he can’t shake;
No one knows what’s not fake,
But he senses, he thinks, what’s not Real.