To Donetsk , far Ukraine
so far east it must be Asia ,
came the Spanish in their thousands,
with Manolo, pounding rhythm,
playing with their ten midfielders,
masters of the ball retention;
and the French, the handball heroes,
lambs to slaughter sacrificial.
Napoleon, in all his glory,
never ventured this far eastwards
and no-one really gave the French a
single centime for their chances.
And so the Spanish midfield started
knocking it around at leisure,
Xabi out to Iniesta,
on to Pedro, back to Xabi,
to Alonso, back to Xabi,
on to Silva, ‘cross to Busquets,
Fabregas, then Iniesta,
Pedro, Xabi and Alonso,
on to Busquets, on to Silva,
Iniesta, back to Xabi,
Fabregas and Iniesta.
On and on and on, they did this,
like they do in pre-match training,
four ‘gainst four in small rectangle,
till the French became frustrated
charging forward, forced the issue,
like a bull, enraged and snorting.
Then Iniesta sidestepped smartly,
drove the knife deep down to Pedro,
crossed and in came bold Alonso
with a lethal downward header.
And, with this fatal wound inflicted,
they went back to red cape waving,
Xabi out to Iniesta,
on to Pedro, back to Xabi,
to Alonso, back to Xabi,
on to Silva, ‘cross to Busquets,
Fabregas, then Iniesta,
Pedro, Xabi and Alonso,
on to Busquets, on to Silva,
Iniesta, back to Xabi,
Fabregas and Iniesta.
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