Sobriquets amass resonance, a sort of
frequency of utterance so victories
feed hard-scrapple scandals and ego-imploding
defeats, glitches on the donkey tube.
The Spanish press take Don Andrés to be their
lawfully-wedded guest, pero Iniesta is no
crisp maiden.
If anything, el Ilusionista is a humble bogey
with enormous scimitars for Dimensions.
Some call him Anti-Galactic based on that
Milky-Way of a season with Barca, burying Chelsea
in the League Mausoleum with the deceased stars
of long-range petards at 25 yards; tambien, Iniesta
le dio tremenda nalgadas a Manchester until Rooney
stepped up and pledged allegiance to Iniesta from across
the glassine moat of his celebrity.
Iniesta's that scrappy palooka runt makes pop-off midfield;
he pries opens the berth of play and doesn’t get sucked out to sea
by the phalanx of defensemen flotsamed into the penalty box.
If anything, Iniesta proved paramount as that character actor
alternate with humility degrees; I mean it was David Villa I think
gave the assist, but it was Iniesta that projectiled the rock
past Stekelenburg.
In all truth, I had flotsamed Jarque's tragic heart attack from mind
but the Paladin Iniesta, a tiny man, is an avalanche of cleats.
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