ODE TO KAKA (REVISED)...

I have never worn those spaceman goalie gloves
and wanted to push a cork into the Winchester of a striker.
Never wanted to be the general in yellow Lycra
barking orders at Easter Island lieutenants of defense.
Nor sentinel the post and strike zone on full tarantula.
But goalies do nightmare seraphim like Kaka.
I know this because I have seen the clips.
Certainly, those in need of the least from their cohort
shall be considered conspirators, but in an inestimable caliber.
True, the Kaka Show was almost like I pledge allegiance to Jesus,
in Milan, which is President Oz's private futbol cabernet.
And now, after the trade, Kaka is set to douse the Bernabeu
with naptha godspeed, jet-engine sprinter nozzle rabbit.
Seems like the kid has never had an invitation to squalor;
father's an engineer, mother's a teacher, and yet he can slick
the low shot under the goalie like a bread thief or stevedore.
Reviled in the Republic of Argentina for the psychosis-spanking
in the 2004 Cup; revered in the city of the Sforza as a conifer
of talent or an elm of elan, a true army of righteous celebrity.