The Ballad Of Thierry Henry

By @buxtongooner

I wrote this whilst pissed after the FA Cup game against Leeds last season. It’s been lurking in my laptop’s memory and I thought even though the moment’s passed it may take your minds off things – albeit very briefly.

 The Ballad Of Thierry Henry

 A winger from The Old Lady, via Monaco you came,

 A replacement for Le Sulk, of the new training ground fame.

 ‘Thierry Henry is a winger, Got it?’ typed an arrogant dick,

 ‘Not a striker, not a goalscorer’ Myles Palmer, you prick.

 Ok, we had doubts, and we’d spent a few quid, 

You’d played at the top level, but not The Premier League, kid. 

You huffed and you puffed, there were chances you would spurn,

 Forty eight goals in two seasons? Not a bad return.

 And then you started to blossom, slamming them in for fun, 

Thirty two the next year, as a double was won.

 Amother winners medal in two thousand and three, 

He wasn’t as bad as you thought Myles, you see? 

Won twenty six, drawn twelve, an Invincible the year later,

The greatest Arsenal ever, and I doubt we’ll see greater. 

As you celebrated in the corner at the shithole 

White Hart Lane, We laughed as you danced as the spuds winced in pain. 

The three years that followed, the goals still flowing, 

But knocks taking their toll, and your body gently slowing. 

A Parisien heartbreak, the cruelty, the pain, 

Our chance to be Kings washed out in the rain. 

A trip to Barcelona was next up for you,
The fancy Blaugrana that played at Camp Nou.

North London was your home, the red and the white, 

Not mixing with Xavi and his gob full of shite. 

Successes in Spain, then off to The States, 

For a jolly old kickabout with some of your mates. 

But rumours abound, ‘He’s back!’ they all squeal, 

Oh, he’s training with us, that’s all - big fucking deal. 

 A defeat against Fulham, something to lift the gloom? 

An old friendly face, some needed va va voom? 

Welcome back home, son, we’re glad to have you back, 

Our famous 14, now 12, in attack. 

You hadn’t really changed much, in the time you’d been away, 

Slower, but still classy, like back in the day. 

Not the lumbering has-been as some of us feared, 

Still a maverick marauding with and an old sea-dogs beard.

You came on against Leeds, replacing those that should do better,

Who wrote the script? Because you read it to the letter. 

With calmness and poise, your finish so deft 

The clock was turned back , like you never even left. 

What I’d give to have been there,

I would have felt blessed, 

You wheeling away, fist pumping your chest. 

The madness around you, you running, your scream, 

A great moment in sport, a footballing dream.

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