From your actions, you’re clearly goal-hanging,
you’re not playing fair, when you arrange a banging,
your huge cheque, should go to someone good,
instead the millions, go to you Greenwood,
it’s seems a staple, to make a sportsman shine,
the sheep call you god, you’re so sublime,
thus, everything you see, is yours to take,
but when it comes to her, I think you should wait,
I don’t care if you’re allowed, by chief Infantino,
where you and your friends sin, in a sleazy casino,
saying “the chips are down, our money talks,
when it comes to permission, that is bought!”
Get off the pitch, and get back to your bench,
you need to reassess, in order to clench,
the concept of consent, sometimes not yours,
but in your eyes, every woman’s a whore,
you’ve got a problem, which is overly fed,
by too many people, leaving purity dead,
if a shred of humanity, in you remains,
I’m sure at some point, you’ll be allowed to play,
but know this, I don’t care about your sheet,
I care about the girls, in your hotel suite,
writhing, feeling dirty, after something cruel,
this is the definition, of the offside rule.