So this is what happens when I can't sleep on a Thursday night. Back to the microphone I go...

Ladies and Lilywhites, I present to you after the jump: The Ballad of Luka.

There's a story, so it goes
One that everybody knows
You can feel it in your toes
This summer eve,

Of a player, this warm night,
Dressed in blinding Lilywhite
Who would exercise his right
To take his leave.

For he thinks that he has seen
Sights of pitches lush and green
South of the N17
In pastures new

Where he'll make a giant splash
With his diagonal pass
And can rake in gobs of cash
In shirts of blue.

It's a torrid, sad affair,
One that makes supporters swear
As he chases silverware
Away from home,

And the Blues think we'll succumb
For a fucking paltry sum
(But at least it's not the Scum
To whom he'll roam)

Peace to Harry, stalwart foe,
And to Daniel, C.F.O.,
Who have told him, flatly, "NO,
You are not going"

For they know the squad prefers
Smashing football connoisseurs
For the championships Spurs
Will be bestowing.

Gentle readers, best beware;
For our Croat, say a prayer:
Best avoid the billionaire
To whom you sell,

Or it all will come to naught
On a Russian bastard's yacht
As your skills are left to rot
In Chelsea Hell.

(Thank you. I like coffee, cold beer, and long walks in the rain.)

Editor's Note: If you missed the first installment of this poetry slam, you can check it out here.