Twas the night before Kickoff, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a City's fan louse.
The kits were hung in the closet with care,
In hopes that The Villa soon would be there.
The supporters were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of internet streams danced in their heads.
And mamma in her Bent kit, and I in my scarf,
Decided to get ready for another Villa season that would surely make us barf.
When out on the pitch there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to which Villan had sprained their bladder. (And is out 2-4 weeks.)
Away to the window I flew like a Gab,
Tore open the shutters and started to sob.
The moon on the breast of the new-rolled out grass
Gave way to the sounds of some Villa fan's sass.
When, suddenly my eyes saw a scum fan's flare,
But it was actually Big Eck, and all eleven players.
With a little old manager, so crazy and ginger,
I knew in a moment it wasn't Arsne Wenger.
More rapid than Stoke his players they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!
"Now Elfboy now, Roaches! now, Bazza and Shay!
On, Collins! On, Bent! On Warnock! No, not you Beye!
To the top of the table! to the FA Cup Final!
Now dash away! And please no injures that are spinal!
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the pitch
The prancing of diving poofs. who are super rich.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the right wing, Marc Albrighton came with a bound.
He was dressed all in claret, from his head to his elf shoes,
And he was so adorable fans that the Fulham fans booed.
A bundle of crosses he had flung with his foot,
And he looked chimney sweep, covered in soot.
He was shortish and quick, a right jolly old elf,
And I swooned when I saw him, in spite of myself!
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Just one Tweet reply to me and I would be dead.
And Big Eck's eyes, oh how they twinkled! his accent so scary!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the ginger of his head showed him to be from Glasgow.
The job he had previously made all the Villa fans mad,
But he swore that soon the protesters would be glad.
He had a suit and a tie and a League Cup title,
But it was the style he played the protesters said was vital!
He spoke not a word, and sorta went straight to his work,
And signed a Frenchman and an Irishman, who I hope aren't jerks.
And in his Scottish accent, which is such a blast,
He gave a hint that the Zoggy signing wouldn't be his last!
He sprang to the touchline, to his team gave a whistle,
And they took the pitch to play, hopefully not like Partick Thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, hoping to give his team a spark.
"Happy kickoff to all, and please no more Ian Darke!"