song for a psychic

Telling us the future was your goal
Making shattered Cup dreams whole:
Nine prophetical brains alarmed us
But with octuple legs, you disarmed us.
Who’d have believed a cephalopod made plain
That Germany could lose to Spain?
And even then the miracle never ends
For Spain will go and trounce the Netherlands.
So though you foresaw our Lampard’s phantom
And thought our English fighters bantam,
We mourn your retiring from centre stage
As one who goes before his age:
We wish you well, and cry we all –
Let’s all have Risotto a la Paul!