A poem for Transfer Deadline Day

Twas the night before Transfer Deadline Day, when all thro' the league
Not a single manager, was exempt from fatigue;
The bids were faxed by the chief exec with care,
In hopes that a new signing soon would be there;
The fans were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of star players danc'd in their heads,
And seasoned veterans, and those with one cap,
Had just located QPR on a map —
When live on talkSPORT there arose such a clatter,
I turned up the radio to see what was the matter.
“Here is a transfer window breaking news flash!
Brendan Rodgers splashes more cash!”.
Could Coutinho's arrival stem Liverpool's woe,
And leave them looking at Everton below?
Then, what to wondering Blue eyes should appear,
It's Ashley Cole penning a deal for next year,
There's Wilfried Zaha, so lively and quick,
Fergie will hope that he proves a snip.
But back to the Eagles where he'll get a game,
While others hope for a bargain to claim:
Now Wenger, now Pulis, now Pardew and Redknapp,
On Moyes, on Lambert, on Hughton and Laudrup;
To climb up the table you need a points haul!
Now win away! Win away! Win away all!
You'll need reinforcements for that crucial cup tie,
Especially when it's live and exclusive on Sky;
With each game you led but in the end drew,
The fans' cries for reinforcements just grew:
As if the chairman needed any more proof
Every pass your team plays is merely a hoof.
If you wish to turn your season around,
The owner must cough up a few million pounds:
Otherwise you'll find ourselves right at the foot,
And your Premier League status will end up caput;
But with some new signings you'll have a fair crack,
And maybe the gaffer won't end up with the sack:
If you just had a striker more chances you'd bury
Or a player who can head it just like John Terry
Your passes would have a Barca-esque flow,
You'd win the derby and be able to crow;
The relegation battle would take place beneath
And you'd have more bite than Suarez's teeth.
No longer your back line would wobble like jelly
G Nev would praise you when you're on the telly:
If only you had some oil-rich wealth,
But this transfer window's not good for your health;
A squad lacking depth is something you dread
It keeps you awake when you lie in your bed.
Life's tough when you have no money to spend,
While the countdown clock says it's nearly the end,
That's just the way that January goes
A mere 24 hours until it's all closed.
At 11pm sounds the final whistle,
Still time for that loan deal with Partick Thistle:
But at least when it's over you've had the foresight —
Not to spend 50 mill on a striker who's absolute s***e.