Cristiano has remov’d his kit,
He waves it round, the pitch while running,
The prior jink and strike were stunning,
Makes fans all stand from whence they would sit.
The arrogant and petulant tit,
So much wild guile and brazen cunning,
Physique bronz’d by incessant sunning,
All accolades and tributes befit.
Now squirms and feigns as if lame or hurt,
Pathetically prostrate, upon the floor,
Crying foul to man wearing black shirt.
Unsure if legs or it it’s ego that’s sore.
James Wright is an editor at New Albion.