Poetry in Milan

Having just planned a trip to Derry in Northern Ireland I was reminded of the trip to Limerick earlier this year and the poetry reading at the White House. In view of this I thought I would inflict my poem written in Milan.

First sight of San Siro, you just cannot lick it,
Saturday's travail to obtain a ticket,
"The game's not on until the morrow,"
the security man said as he noticed my sorrow.

So I had to return in many hours time,
if I was to watch Milano's table climb.
Catania, my Catania; the sole fan exclaimed;
From the heel of Italia where they are famed.

Good specks for few Euros I eventually found,
at the Ultras part of the AC ground.
The vista was sweet and you didn't need specs,
And during the match - beer - but not Becks.

Becks could have come here - the fashion place!
His ultra-thin wife so oft shows her face.
She brandishes plastic and her perfume reeks
In the D & G kiosks and Prada boutiques.

Kaka made sure the tie was a draw,
and cushions remained where they'd sat before.
Campioni d'Europa were not their fans pleasing,
as the Sicily boys continued their teasing.

The jewels on the pitch are losing their crown,
The diamond formation is wearing a frown,
The Milanese princes spray passes that stray,
As Dario Fo mourns its struggling play.

The bright, yellow trams outside (wait in line)
for the Rosetti faithful to climb on and whine,
Only 1-1 against Mafia foe?
Tales of match-fixing and tales of woe.

The stadium's striped may share the same pitch,
and both sides may be in the league of the rich,
But the champion's tag is starting to look phoney,
Pay back time for Berlusconi.