So, there you sit with shaven head.
The lights bounce off your dome.
You can't speak well of those in red.
You cut down poor Guillaume.
You laud the leafs grit ratio
while screaming love of blue,
and giving Burke fellatio
in praise of his "tough" crew.
You kiss the arse of Lucy's bitch
until your lips are sore.
I guess leaf love can make you rich,
you shrieking, taunting boor.
Some say you really know the game
and you're worth a listen,
But still you grant unearned acclaim,
with your head a-glisten.
Now your hubris grows still greater:
You dissed The General.
Said he'll fail without the traitor,
his star ephemeral.
But we know why you're such a knob
and why you treat us rough.
It's 'cause you don't have Gainey's job.
You weren't good enough.