There is no doubt it is a penalty
A trailing leg caught the number nine
And upended him right on the spot.
Jesus shakes his head;
So stupido, that centre half
So bloody stupido.
Jose de Jesus will be our saviour
He tells himself
Blessing himself three times
Calling on his grandmother, his grandfather,
The Holy Ghost, Castro, Pancho Villa
And all the saints in Christendom.
The penalty taker glares at him
If looks were bullets he would be finito
He is stupido too, he thinks
Smiling his little smile.
He sways this way on jelly legs
Feints that way and flops his arms
The ball is struck, the aim is fine
But Jesus has read the striker’s line
Jesus saves – this time