Reflections on Beckham’s move

Published January 1, 2011 by tootingtrumpet

Written when Beckham moved to LA Galaxy January 2007

Friends, Bloggers, countrymen, lend me your ears;
I come to bury Beckham, not to praise him.
The products that men shill live after them;
The goals are oft interred with their trophies
So let it be with Becks.
The noble Bestus Hath told you Becks was unambitious:
If it were so, it was a grievous fault,
And grievously hath Becks answer’d it.
Here, under leave of Bestus and the rest -For Bestus was an honourable man;
So are they all, all honourable men –
Come I to speak in Beckham’s football funeral.
He was Neville’s friend, faithful and just to him:
But Bestus says he was over-rated;
And Bestus was an honourable man.
He hath brought many trophies home to Manchester
Whose shirt sales did the general coffers fill:
Did this in Becks seem unambitious?
When that the poor have cried, Becks hath wept:
Sports stars should be made of sterner stuff:
Yet Bestus says he was over-rated;
And Bestus was an honourable man.
You all did see that on the Training ground
I thrice presented him a kingly armband
Which he did thrice accept: was this unambitious?
Yet Bestus says he was unambitious;
And, sure, he was an honourable man.
I speak not to disprove what Bestus spoke,
But here I am to speak what I do know.
You all did love him once, not without cause:
What cause withholds you then, to mourn for his career
O judgment! thou art fled to brutish beasts,
And men have lost their reason.
Bear with me;
My heart is in the coffin there with Becks and all that money
And I must pause till it come back to me.
Away from the Bridge (ex Red Hot Goal Pepperer)
Sometimes I feel
Like I don’t have a purpose
Sometimes I feel
Like my only friend
Is the city I live in
The city of angels
Lonely as I am
Together we cry
I drive on her streets
‘Cause she’s my companion
I walk through her hills
‘Cause she knows who I am
She sees my good deeds
And she kisses me windy
I never worry
Now that is a lie
I don’t ever want to feel
Like I did that day (when Sir Alex kicked that boot)
Take me to the place I love
Take me all the way
It’s hard to believe
That there’s nobody out there watching
It’s hard to believe
That I’m all alone
At least I have her love
The city she loves me
Lonely as I am
Together we cry
I don’t ever want to feel
Like I did that day
Take me to the place I love
Take me all that way
Under the bridge downtown
Is where I drew some money
Under the bridge downtown
I could not get enough
Under the bridge downtown
Forgot about my love of football
Under the bridge downtown
I gave my football life away.
With apologies to Anthony, Flea and the others.

One comment on “Reflections on Beckham’s move

  • From the Second Sestyad of Posh and Becks

    (after Christopher Marlowe)

    Odd-looking bird -thin; angular at best,
    A shapeless form unswelled by strapless chest-
    Concealed under her bushel nerves of steel
    To snare in vice-like grip a conga eel
    Of sundry Spices hailing from the East:
    With Pepper, Curry, Oestrogen and Yeast,
    She hid her talent deftly in the wings
    While bigging up Girl Power and other things.
    In synchronal ascent, young Beckham’s team
    Had skimmed the cream from its Youth Training Scheme
    And unearthed quite a clot, whose pinpoint cross
    Sufficed to demark David from the dross.
    His toppling of Goliaths in defence
    Would creosote his nascent business sense
    And, guided by the tabloids and a Scot,
    He set out to construct his Camelot:
    He commissioned reports on breeding stock;
    Had lackeys watch MTV round the clock;
    Sent out a scouting message: “Be prepared!
    Let every girl step forward, ankle bared.”
    The figurative slipper fitted Posh,
    A slapper with a hankering for dosh.
    A strict regime of pregnancies and sprogs
    Did feed the fame machine and oil the cogs
    And ease the exit from the Girls of Spice:
    An altruistic, generous device
    Designed to spare the public further pain
    From Wannabes whose star was on the wane.
    Now David’s long career begins to stall,
    Stagnating in the land of soccerball,
    Where they had doubtless journeyed on an ass,
    For lo -for a fourth time- it came to pass
    That Posh was thin with child. Immaculate
    Timing to boost the Hello!-Life sales rate;
    This time her wrotic writhing has produced
    A fairer foetus, thus to be induced,
    Ripped timely from her womb by physicians,
    And await sponsored name competitions.
    A nod to the red devils and the Spice?
    Poshette sounds awful; Cinnamon tastes nice.

    © HenryLloydMoon
    (written 20/06/2011)

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