So Tim Ream has very sadly departed Bolton Wanderers, to Fulham, in a deal worth a sickeningly low 1. something that means very little million pounds, and anyone who knows me in even the slightest way will know that this means I'm devastated. As I said in my heartfelt plea for him to stay (read here), if he left you could very much expect another poem.
So here it is:
It's a sad, sad day,
What more can I say?
I want to scream,
Because we've sold Tim Ream.
Yet more heartbreak,
For fuck sake.
As once more,
My favourite walks out the door.
Anelka, Cahill, Eidur, Juke,
All made me want to puke.
But this one hurts most of all,
In White again, I'll never see him kick a ball.
A measly 1.4 million, what a sickening joke,
Once again, our faces covered in yolk.
That's good money! You say mockingly,
Well, now all our hopes lie on Dean Moxey.
Please don't make me laugh,
You know Lennon will never see the cash.
Down that black hole it will disappear,
Just like everything else has year after year.
Is this a nightmare? A really bad dream?
Why have they taken him from our team?
Fulham, of all the fucking places,
I hope that they relegated.
I know at times,
This thing's not rhymed.
It's a bit of a mess,
Quite like my head.
To Tim I say adieu,
And I will always love you.
Until your score at the Macron,
With another team's kit on.
To Tim Ream I say goodbye,
With a tear in my eye.
And now I turn to you and say,
We'll live on another day...
However hard life may seem
There's a tear in your eye, isn't there?