ODE TO THIERRY HENRY (REVISED)

Even though you are commandant against racism
in the beautiful game, race has little to do
with that egregious hand ball that knocked
Ireland from the South African running.
You have admitted that game should be replayed.
But F.I.F.A. won't budge because they have
no concept of pixelated hindsight, no hindrance
in stating that what the ref sees is reality.
What is a young striker with beacoup endorsements
from Gilette, Renault, Pepsi, and Nike to do
with the remorse of sticky hands? Let's not even
bring up your hard scrabble petri-dish days
in Essonne, or the delinquent elements you escaped.
My, how this ode about a goofy French kid
with sniper-dreams makes for a troublesome entretemps?
Your name resides with Arsenal, that much is fact.
During your Juventus twilight not even
Catalano could detect the finisher in you.
You flopped around like a gangly Wahoo
slurping oxygen through a coffee stirrer.
On the wing you were ineffectual--as if
on power down mode or revenant android.
As striker though, you were like crouching
clever, rogue as clover, diabolical as dander
running roil over defenders like tiny tsunami.
Reunited with Wengner at Barcelona, you came
into your impala wings and left the airstrip
to smaller craft, gnatty weekend vessels.
Not even a kibosh floating eye from the keeper,
nor a corner bot, nor sweeper unit, nor petard plug
Can arret his goatshin bombast blowtorch.
Ever since his showing for France in 1998,
he has been collecting manada of accolades.
In 1999, the cap for the national equipe.
In 2004, the European Golden Boot (Botín)
In 2007, more goals scored than Platini.
In 2009, more sighs than the scientists
claiming their gigantic collider is being
sabotaged by the future.