When I first heard the news I was full of delight;
I never imagined that you would be shite.
I'd seen you play for Preston N.E.
Loads of times on Sky TV -
you had all of the tricks and then pace to burn,
movement and skills and a very quick turn,
but the problems, they started quite early for you -
you failed a medical because your knee was screwed.
But no, we took pity, in you came all the same,
Ricardo Fuller, goalscoring's your game.
And what a great start when you hit the ball with malice,
past a dodgy Argie keeper playing for Crystal Palace.
"Hooray!" we all cheered, but it was all in vain
You were so bad you never scored again.
(Apart from for Jamaica, for whom you scored two,
but nobody cares about that except you).
Games came and went without you getting another,
the only thing you ever did was fall over.
Villa, Southampton, Man City and Leeds,
all games where you neglected your goalscoring deeds.
Tottenham, Middlesbrough, need I go on
your finishing technique was woefully wrong.
Velimir stuck you up front on your own,
by now your dry spell had grown and grown
to days, weeks, months without your name on the scoresheet
and you just fell over, you couldn't stay on your feet.
The season, it ended, you wanted to get away,
Sunderland came calling one glorious July day.
But one failed medical meant we retained your talent,
and an injury record to rival Rory Allen.
Then Judas came calling, we all knew he would,
to take you away from the land of the good.
He wants to end your Fratton nightmare, finally,
to stick you in a team with Francis Benali.
So farewell, brave Ricky, off to Southampton you flee,
one goal in thirty-seven and with your old dodgy knee.
(Try not to score next season, when all's said and done,
I'd love to see Southampton in Coca Cola League One).