They gave you fangs, dear Harry, and a lair,
The number nine, to hunt the center pair.
But hunting bored you. Nobler to explore:
The passer, the professor, the Fake Four.
You gorge on farmers all through winter's night,
A hundred goals that no one holds as tight.
The record swells, the ledger reads sublime,
A broken record, padding out the time.
Then June arrives, the stage goes bright and wide,
And somehow you have wandered off to hide.
Deep in the build-up, tidy, never lost,
The one man missing where it matters most.
The fattest stats, the thinnest night that pinned
A trophy to your chest and called you king.
Top scorer of the games that mean nothing.