A pack of savages rushing the goal,
Driving balls before them like frightened sheep;
Firing into the net, they fall and roll,
Exultant in the dance of sprint and leap.
Loosing barbaric yawps high-pitched and shrill
They stamp opponents' feet like they were flames;
To them, every direction is downhill.
Sidelined, I struggle to learn all their names.
Somehow I've got to harness this: to teach
Then how to dribble, show them where to stand,
What goal- and corner-kicks are, how to reach
For passes with their feet, not with their hands--
They charge me when I whistle for the ball;
I'm Rome, and they're the warriors of Gaul.
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