Forlan's got forty years of ego felatio coming to him
for propelling Uruguay to uber-heights of Cup History.
More than sideswipes from el Ruso or pseudo-saves
by slap-happy Suarez, more than martial lobs into
double-team territory by Perreira or Gargano chest bumps,
more than cardio from the bomba or vuvusella vitriol
No player has done more to propel, permit, permutate
purloin, their country's chances than Forlan did with
Uruguay.
Forlan's got pedigree and panache
plus a mustard plug of Fortitude, a phalanx of ambidextrous
closed-loop fire control systems.
Nicknamed Cachavacha by Independiente fans,
or was it los locos de Penarol?, Forlan destroys conceits
that the goalie can run spatial reconnaissance
that the farthest post is difficult to sopapo
that too much green deflates balon's roar
Forlan's boxing shot is right outside box
where balon arcs and wanes, where any outside
shove from the gods can slap alas on your botin.
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