Motta’s Misguided Men
They brought him in with dreams so bright,
A future bathed in black and white.
Yet soon the veil of hope fell thin,
Revealing cracks deep-set within.
A master plan? A hollow thought,
As flops he praised and battles lost.
Poopmeiners strolled, too slow, too meek,
While Goneloziz proved a ghost, too weak.
Then came Smelly, lost, confused,
A walking foul, his talent bruised.
And Gatti, oh—brick by brick,
A builder’s touch, a touch too thick.
With stubborn faith, he placed his trust
In men who crumbled into dust.
The fans despaired, the banners fell,
As Turin’s dreams turned into hell.
While legends watched with heads held low,
He led the ship where cold winds blow.
No passion, pride, nor grand design—
Just wasted days in fate’s decline.
And so, Juventus slips away,
A giant lost in disarray.
For Motta’s rule, a fleeting game—
A reign of error, built on shame.
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Motta’s Misstep: A Juventus Lament
They hailed him bold, a master’s mind,
A tactician sharp, a game refined.
But Turin’s lights soon cast a glare,
Exposing flaws laid bare in air.
With plans that crumbled, frail as dust,
A midfield lost, a line unjust.
No rhythm found, no fire to spark,
A squad adrift in tactics dark.
The echoes of past giants call,
Yet here he stands, so weak, so small.
No warrior’s heart, no master’s guile,
Just passing days in aimless style.
Oh, how they dreamed of glory’s rise,
Yet all they gained were hollow sighs.
For in his hands, the Old Lady wept—
A throne once proud, now sorely kept.
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