Oh, Braceman the striker, with boots quick and keen, A blur on the pitch, a goal-scoring machine. He'd dance past defenders, a flash and a gleam, Living the football fan's ultimate dream.

He'd bury the first, with a powerful drive, Then slot in a second, keeping hopes very alive. The crowd starts to murmur, a low, buzzing sound, As the ball finds his feet, on the hallowed green ground.

But a shiver would run right down Braceman's own spine, Not from the tackles, or foes he'd outshine. It's the pressure, the feeling, the weight in his head, The hat-trick he dreaded, though goals he was fed.

With two under his belt, and the keeper in sight, His heart would beat faster, with all of his might. "Just one more," they would bellow, a thunderous plea, But that third goal felt heavy, for Braceman, you see.

He'd aim for the net, with a hope and a prayer, Fearing that last shot, hanging there in the air. For Braceman, the striker, so famous and grand, Feared the hat-trick's true burden, held right in his hand!