Felicitations all ‘tis James the White,
Your humble host on this night of nights,
‘round this sceptered isle our correspondents fly,
For the latest news in definition high.
Aye the comings, goings, innings, outings
And drama, that I’ll convey by shouting.
Caveat emptor, buyer beware,
And E-harmony and Go Compare.
First to London and Emirates field we fly
Where noble Brutus standeth by,
Amidst rabble, that mob and throng,
I prithee entreat them for a song
Some lifting hymn or inspir’ed psalm,
Or “Stand up if you hate Tottenham”
Hath Lord Wenger, his defence sutured
With foreign heroes, hitherto obscure,
Or perhaps some mewling infant, snatched from mother’s teat,
That likes the ball played into feet!
What say you, Brutus?
Hail, Big Jim, I trust I find you fine of fettle
Tho’ allowed hath been the dust to settle,
That hath seen the mighty Arsenal yield,
At the massacre of Trafford field.
Eight Two Brute?
Aye, eight two indeed,
Now Frenchmen have succumbed to greed,
And the Spaniard, to his ancestral home has flown,
While that lofty, beauteous Dane has gone on loan.
In hath come an Oriental, a fleet of foot attacker,
A Brazilian and Per Mertesacker.
And portentous tidings, to cause a stout heart swoon,
Arteta and Yossi Benayoun!
Fie! Foul Wenger artfully he the arrow dodged,
Tho’ Clock End clamour for his dislodge.
What of England’s rose, and brave Sir Harry’s team
So nearly conquerors of Europe,
So foully trick’d from Carling Cup,
So almost, nearly Wembley bound
Then dashed their hopes on stony ground.
And when cruel autumn doth arrive,
Can be viewed on Thursday, Channel 5!
We gathered here at White Hart gate,
For Harry’s wisdom we await,
All in for shilling or for pound
What sayeth noble Harry, through car window wound?
Scotty Parker, Adebayor from City,
Oh be still the heart of Hotspur,
Pause ye, persevere and pity,
Becalm’ed, try laudanum or other soporific,
For Harry has declared these signings “triffick”
And what of Crouch, that gallant, that tower,
Cometh the man, cometh the hour?
Of “nearly man” hath he cast off the yoke?
Alas no Jim, he’s been sold to Stoke.
Though by strategy, he only needs to stand
In goalmouth awaiting Delaps prodigious hands,
For ‘tis off long ball that he thriveth best.
Aye, like the Chief in
“One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest!”
Alas dear friends the night it creepeth in,
And we must, most reluctant, call the curtain down.
To Stamford now, whither the money goest?
Juan Mata and Anders Villas Boas!
On and on, to King Kenneth’s realm we go,
Hath he squandered Henry’s dough?
Aye, every noble Englishman is now in red,
To launch the ball at Carroll’s head.
And here we end, and farewell to all,
What tales we’ve heard tonight of this “football”
Speak now yere thoughts, be they sweet or bitter,
Tell all, by E-mail or by Twitter.
And ‘til January, your prayers be answered may
On another Transfer Deadline Day.