We Don't Need No Stinkin' Free Verse!

ROGER THE GREAT

On a breezy clay court on a Sunday in May,

There was a lot on the line, to quote a chiché.
Both Roger and Rafa had been getting in tune,
For the Grand Slam in Paris upcoming in June.

The kid from Mallorca had defended his crown,
And swaggered to Hamburg, his courage renoun.
His streak on the clay had lasted for years,
And he’d taken out almost all of his peers.

The Swiss had been facing the drone of the press,
Who declared that since Oz, he had lost his finesse.
They questioned his fitness, they questioned his will.
They questioned his gonads … you all know the drill.

When he fired his coach, they said “What’s he thinking?”
And even his fans were left humbled and blinking.
But Roger said letting Roche go was a choice,
And it seems he was right and his fans can rejoice.

In the first set Fed looked like he wasn’t all there,
And Rafa had fire and Rafa had flair.
Fed did get some points, but they didn’t come cheap,
And the first set was Rafa’s and it looked like a sweep.

Then all of a sudden, just like Wimby last year,
The Fed we all knew and admired appeared.
He stepped in the court and was hitting more winners
Than the number of Nadals at their own Sunday dinners.

It seemed for a time that Nadal he would break,
But Fed just struck like a cool rattlesnake.
The red bowling shirt was swirling like wind,
And all of Fed’s box just observed him and grinned.

Rafa looked stunned in the third set, and stony,
He also looked tired and kept glancing at Toni.
Fed’s first serve was smokin’, Raf’s errors were mounting
Fed had thirty-one winners, but no one was counting.

Because on this day Fed was simply outstanding,
And like cattle and horses, Nadal got a branding.
Fed ran up to Mirka for a kiss that was tender,
And he held up that trophy in all of its splendor.

And as for Nadal, there’s no reason to fret,
As he still is a champ who can make players sweat.
He has the respect of his coach and his mates.
Now they both go to Paris where the Grand Slam awaits.

--- Pour Madame Highpockets