It was 5pm in New York
I had spent an hour fretting over the not
Of a nonexistent necktie
For an online preinterview
So I missed the inconsequential first quarter
Of an hour cursing at a different screen
Fiddling with the cursor at the arse of it
I could have taken longer
It would have meant nothing less
Than a few beers unrattled
Ultimately Blackburn could not feed their Yak
And Valencia got sick of having his crosses blocked
So the one time Paul Robinson
Failed his angles
Antonio swooshed a barley cutter in
With the outside of his right Nike
What looked like a lovely Lancashire night
Gave way to routine
And ended in uncertainty for some
With seven games to go
Getty images
The muscly, bustly Ecuadorian
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