viernes, febrero 22, 2008
POEMA AL FUTBOL
A mi pata y pelotero, Roger, Romario, Santivanez
Estas son muy buenas:
El desamorado:
Como vas a saber lo que es el carino, si nunca la acariciaste de chanfle entrandole con el reves del pie para dejarla jadeando bajo la red: Que dificil es ser carinoso, carajo!
El poeta:
Como vas a saber lo que es la poesia, si jamas tiraste una gambeta
El arte: (ojo para la gente del MAC)
Como vas a saber lo que es el arte, si nunca, pero nunca inventaste una rabona.
Beethoven:
Como vas a saber lo que es la musica, si jamas cantaste desde la popular.
Metaficcional Inc.:
Como vas a saber, querido amigo, como vas a saber lo que es la vida, si nunca jamas jugaste al futbol.
REMEMBER THE NAME/FORT MINOR
Esta cancion del ponja americano Mike Shinoda (ex Linkin Park) se ha convertido en todo un himno deportivo a nivel mundial. Sobre todo por su corito:
This is ten percent luck, twenty percent skill
Fifteen percent concentrated power of will
Five percent pleasure, fifty percent pain
And a hundred percent reason to remember the name!
You ready?! Lets go!
Yeah, for those of you that want to know what we're all about
It's like this y'all (c'mon!)
[Chorus]
This is ten percent luck, twenty percent skill
Fifteen percent concentrated power of will
Five percent pleasure, fifty percent pain
And a hundred percent reason to remember the name!
Mike! - He doesn't need his name up in lights
He just wants to be heard whether it's the beat or the mic
He feels so unlike everybody else, alone
In spite of the fact that some people still think that they know him
But fuck em, he knows the code
It's not about the salary
It's all about reality and making some noise
Makin the story - makin sure his clique stays up
That means when he puts it down Tak's pickin it up! let's go!
Who the hell is he anyway?
He never really talks much
Never concerned with status but still leavin them star struck
Humbled through opportunities given to him despite the fact
That many misjudge him because he makes a livin from writin raps
Put it together himself, now the picture connects
Never askin for someone's help, to get some respect
He's only focused on what he wrote, his will is beyond reach
And now when it all unfolds, the skill of an artist
It's just twenty percent skill
Eighty percent fear
Be one hundred percent clear cause Ryu is ill
Who would've thought that he'd be the one to set the west in flames
And I heard him wreckin with The Crystal Method, "Name Of The Game"
Came back dropped Megadef, took em to church
I like bleach man, why you have the stupidest verse?
This dude is the truth, now everybody be givin him guest spots
His stock's through the roof I heard he fuckin with S. Dot!
[Chorus]
They call him Ryu The Sick
And he's spittin fire with Mike
Got him out the dryer he's hot
Found him in Fort Minor with Tak
Been a fuckin annihilist porcupine
He's a prick, he's a cock
The type woman want to be with, and rappers hope he get shot
Eight years in the makin, patiently waitin to blow
Now the record with Shinoda's takin over the globe
He's got a partner in crime, his shit is equally dope
You wont believe the kind of shit that comes out of this kid's throat
Tak! - He's not your everyday on the block
He knows how to work with what he's got
Makin his way to the top
People think its a common owners name
People keep askin him was it given at birth
Or does it stand for an acronym?
No he's livin proof, Got him rockin the booth
He'll get you buzzin quicker than a shot of vodka with juice
Him and his crew are known around as one of the best
Dedicated to what they doin give a hundred percent
Forget Mike - Nobody really knows how or why he works so hard
It seems like he's never got time
Because he writes every note and he writes every line
And I've seen him at work when that light goes on in his mind
It's like a design is written in his head every time
Before he even touches a key or speaks in a rhyme
And those motherfuckers he runs with, those kids that he signed?
Ridiculous, without even trying, how do they do it?!
[Chorus - repeat 2x]
[Outro - Mike Shinoda]
Yeah! Fort Minor
M. Shinoda - Styles of Beyond
Ryu! Takbir! Machine Shop!
Les comparto mi poema, . . .
ResponderBorrarEL FUTBOL: JUEGO CELESTIAL DEL HOMBRE
Domingo la cita,
lugar un estadio,
fila de taquilla
pesado calvario.
Estando en la grada
no te importa nada,
que suenen cornetas,
matracas, trompetas.
Disfrutamos juntos
¡el juego del hombre!,
lucen los conjuntos
vistoso uniforme.
Once contra once,
el fut es romance,
la de gajos rueda
en cancha de seda.
El sudor la riega
en sana refriega,
al balón botines,
puntapiés afines.
La defensa luce,
la media se crece,
un buen delantero
encara al portero.
¡La malla se mece!,
¡la gente enloquece!,
¡la magia del fútbol!,
¡se ha metido un goool!
Anotarlo es clave,
bendita esa llave,
el tanto es pedido
en cada partido.
No basta jugarlo
pues hay que ganarlo,
triunfar con honor,
no hay nada mejor.
Dura es la batalla,
la pasión estalla,
mas hay un principio:
¡que se juegue limpio!
El árbitro pita . . .
principio, el final,
marcará cerquita
imparcial penal.
Las porras se cimbran
a cada momento,
aplauden, corean,
acción y talento.
¡Un gran cabezazo!,
¡un tiro al larguero!,
¡bonito chanflazo!,
¡lance del arquero!
¡Deporte el más bello!,
¡que ganas, que entrega!,
el fútbol se juega . . .
también en el cielo.
Autor: Lic. Gonzalo Ramos Aranda
México, Distrito Federal, a 15 de marzo del 2006.
Si Dios quiere, este bello poema rodará, rodará y rodará
por el mundo, . . . como si fuera un balón de fútbol.
Dedicado a Don Angel Fernández Rugama (QEPD)
Reg. Indautor No. 03-2006-050413132300-01