I am Zlatan. I have run all evening in Nordic airs

and am warm in spite of your middling stares.

I’ve seen my dreams fade in fog of breath offsides,

the ball in net and linesman’s flag spread wide.

’twas Messi wanted the middle, not wing,

and Pep obeyed, from 4-3-3 to 4-5-1.

I was sacrificed and hadn’t the free-

dom on the pitch I need to succeed.

I asked for a meeting with Guardiola –

at famed Camp Nou of Barcelona.

I was used and abused in the wrongest way

and they never should have bought me if they

wanted another type of player.

I said:

“You bought a Ferrari but drive a Fiat,”

it was then Guardiola would freeze me out.

I’d enter the room and he’d promptly leave.

He’d greet each player but me he’d bereave.

Barca schoolboys would follow Pep blindly,

while I like Mario asked “Why always me?”

I like men who run red lights, the holy fools

not pedantic coaches and stringent rules.

It came to Pep’s head after Villarreal–

I garnered the courage to let it all out.

There was my enemy, scratching scalp bald.

I calmly suggested that he had no balls.

I threw a box of gear across the room,

and Pep said nothing and silently loomed

and I cataloged his mother’s indecency

and the bully just stared at me blankly.

Exasperated, exhausted, I whispered:

“Pep, don’t bother raise your eyes,

but what are you philosophizing on?”

“A chair, for if I sit upon a chair

I separate myself and say,

there is the world and here

is a chair, and I am sitting on it.”

“But what can you philosophize on that does

not become a chair once you place an ass

upon it?”

Football no longer Piqués my interest

Spurs called, but Milan’s my last babysit.