Poetry of a Man United Defeat

As the clock ticks and the end of the game is nigh, seventy thousand faces ask why lord why

The camera zooms in on that famous Fergie watch, while the opponents and neutrals await an unexpected notch

The visiting striker falls to the floor, rolling around because his big toe is sore

He gets to his feet and pulls up his socks, the rest of his team defend the six yard box

Pass after pass, cross after cross, the Old Trafford attack is all at a loss

The fourth official gets up off his seat, Sir Alex beside him grinding his teeth

Ball after ball is headed away, nothing they can do will win it today

The goalie kicks it long into the sky, seventy thousand faces ask why lord why

The referee blows on his whistle aloud, shock descends over most of the crowd

Fergie offers his conqueror his hand, the players go down the tunnel awaiting their reprimand

Five minutes later Sir Alex must explain, despite his natural annoyance and the freshness of his pain

He is asked about an offside goal and says indeed it took it's toll

An error by the referee may have handed the title to John Terry

Sports writers have their pens at the ready, Fergie blasts ref for not being steady

Ten losing managers all had their say, the ref wasn't good enough at the end of the day

Only one matters, one gets vilified, in the Sunday papers Sir Alex gets fried.