In the realm where green fields stretch and gleam,
A figure rises, woven in the dream,
His name is Angel, bold upon the field,
A single try, his glory thus revealed.
With fervent pride, he claims his rightful place,
The greatest Raider, none can match his grace.
Yet, behind the triumph, shadows softly creep,
A tale of hubris, buried deep in sleep.
With golden hair, his bride stands by his side,
A union forged in laughter, love, and pride.
Yet, in the shadows of the academic fray,
Three failures mark his path at the CIT.
Yet still he climbs, through ranks of public sway,
With “It’s a mathematical certainty,” his play.
The phrase, a shield against the truth’s harsh light,
For in his heart, the numbers twist and bite.
Oh, Angel, legend in your lunchtime lore,
What drives the man behind the grandiose score?
For confidence masks the doubts that lie beneath,
A bravado worn like armour, though it sheathes.
And in your manifesto, words unkind,
A chilling echo of a fractured mind.
For hatred sown against the roots of earth,
Diminishes the worth of one’s own birth.
So let us ponder, in this fleeting game,
The legacy we craft, the paths we claim.
For greatness, dear Angel, is not in the try,
But in the love we nurture, the bonds that tie.
In fields of green where legends rise and fall,
True valour lies in empathy for all.
Let the heart be greater than the fleeting fame,
And in that truth, we find a truer name.
