Mathieu, Mathieu,
Adieu, adieu,
My sorrow knows no bounds,
To red and black
Your vigour snatched,
And all our hopes are drowned
Those unkempt locks
Flew box to box,
Gattuso snarled in vain,
Yet now with him
French fervour swims
While we absorb the pain
Could we have stopped
Your brutal hop?
Might we have stayed your hand?
A terrace chime?
A cunning rhyme?
(A weekly 90 grand?)
Such poise, such fight?
No less than Carrick’s fee,
Instead, forsooth!
The awful truth:
He’s gone – and on a free
A club distraught,
A fighter short,
Somewhere, somehow, we failed,
No sweet Sixteen
For Arsene’s dream,
This feisty ship has sailed
But hey, his choice,
So with one voice
Let Gooners doff their hats,
To say farewell
(Suppress the hell)
And thank you: nice one, Mat…
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