Maestro No More: The Goalkeeper's Tale

Oi, bruv. Pass me the ball. Now,

my amigo. Yo soy maestro do meio campo. Down in Battersea Park,

the sun hits the pitch. He laces his boots with a samba twitch.

He's got flair, he's got fire, he's got midfield desire. But his passes

go missing like socks in the dryer. He shouts, "Yo soy maestro"

with chest puffed wide. But the ball rolls past like it's trying to

hide. He's got step over spins and a no look flick.

But the midfield's cursed, and he's not the pick. You're not a