Thursday, June 14, 2012


Eye of toad and chin of elk;

leg of worm and jaw of whelk;
shamrock leaf and mildew’d fungus
(for the sugar-tongued among us);
ragglewort and liverfluke;
camel’s spit and baby’s puke;
deadly nightshade, picked and pressed;
milk from alligator’s breast;
blood of dodo, hair of Rooney,
ear of bat and smile of Clooney;
claw of bullfinch, herring’s nipple;
double vodka (or a triple);
and as you stir this strange creation,
chant the sacred incantation –

“Let Alonso’s big toe fester;
strain the groin of Iniesta;
tug the ligaments of Xavi;
let Busquets lose his football savvy;
spread butter on Casillas’ fingers;
make sure Arbeloa malingers;
let Jordi Alba’s muscles crumble;
let Ramos’s appendix rumble;
let Silva’s legs begin to stumble;
let Fabregas’s stock now tumble;
let violent sores o’errun Piqué;
but, most of all, let Torres play.”

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