Makes the heart grow fonder

Whilst I sit and idly muse
my vacant mind can freely choose
the subject of my poem next
but nothing comes, I'm totally vexed

The fact I write is testament,
that pen on paper was my intent.
The fact the subject does not appear
I simply find a little queer

To write of nothing and so in rhyme
is indeed poetic crime
The bigger sin's the mental void,
as if my brain's is unemployed


So I've sat and strained a mental squint
and nothing came worthy of print
I'm going to break this mind contraint
drink absinthe then go and paint

When I grow up I want to be a footballer.

I'm not angry, I'm not bitter
I'm only posting this on twitter
Cos every week you shout my name
and forty thousand heaping blame
is quite a lot of stick to handle
ripping me over media scandal
I would not face this scrutiny
If I was scoring regularly
but as I'm not and your’e a fickle fan
I expect you'll rip me all you can

You might think that I was too pricey
But the one you idolised, he signed me
So why not go the extra mile
whilst belting out your two faced smile
and criticise him at the the top
after all he signed this flop
in fact scratch that, he signed a star
And it would not be a step to far
to make the point and I'm not the first
whose career bubble your manager's burst
But you won't see that fickle fan
As you're happy stood by your man

So turn on me, you may as well
With the money I'm on, you can go to hell
I don't care two effing hoots
I've got six mint cars and golden boots
A house in the country and a home on the palm
Sing all you want, you'll do no harm
and you know when I score the winner in the cup
you'll be down the souvenir shop lapping it up