An Ode to Joseph Yobo
Tell the Turks now, for me Joe
We are Everton, we're not their hoe.
Well, unless they've got some dosh,
A fiver'll get you a tug, we're not posh.
The once great Nigerian trinity,
Has crumbled along with our affinity.
We've still got Big Vic, of course,
But he's off too, says my source.
It's your time now, once-trusted centre back,
There's nothing here for you: no more Yak.
Leave us Joey, leave and stop this dance,
This stretched flirtation, this ill-fated romance.
We need your wages, to attract Heskey,
And when Baines goes, maybe Paul Konchesky.
The time Joe, we all know is near,
You won't be missed -- we've got Davie Weir.
Just when you leave, you should know,
I'll have fond memories of you Joe.
Your panicked hoofing, far into the sky,
That naughty holiday, covered with some jarg lie.
You kept the ball, with little grace,
When you were on it, we'd all brace.
But don't fret, you'll have naught to prove,
If you just hurry the [Poor language removed] up and move.
