Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the Valley
Not a striker was scoring, no one was happy
The "sale" sign was hung at Jimmy Seed, with care,
In hopes that a buyer, soon would be there;
The fans were depressed, all snug in their beds;
While visions of sugar-daddies, danced in their heads;
And mamma, in her jersey, and I in my cap,
Accepted a likely winter transfer window nap,
When out on the net there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my bed to see what's the matter.
Away to CharltonLife, I flew like a flash,
Busted open the threads and hoped to see "cash."
When what to my wondering eyes did appear
But another 200 comments and no sale, I fear
With a little old owner, so annoying and thick,
I knew in a moment he must be our prick.
He whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:
"On, Karl! On, Katrien! On Riga! On Driessen!
On, Mag! on, Holmes! on, Konza, I'll fleece them!
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the net
That selling our best players was a likely good bet
Roland was dressed in fur, profits made from our hopes
Rumors of selling were refuted by Snopes
A bundle of money he flung on his back,
The moment he talked, I felt he must be on crack
With a wink of his eye and a twist of his head
I felt in my heart, we had much to dread;
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
He sold our best players; what a damned jerk!
He layed his finger aside of his nose,
Giving a nod, on his Lear jet he rose;
But I heard him exclaim, as he drove out of sight—
“No sale is coming, at least not this night!”
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