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A figure whose fame has brightly grown.
Yet here I stand, with words to weave,
A playful jab, no hate to grieve.
Your stepovers dance, a dizzying blur,
But where’s the finish? A moment to stir.
The crowd waits eager, the goal in sight,
Yet sometimes chaos trumps the fight.
A maestro of flair, no doubt you're bold,
But style alone doesn't equal gold.
Possession lost, a risky game,
Skill unchecked, is it all the same?
Still, I'll admit, your spark is rare,
A blazing comet through the air.
So here's a jest, in rhyming spree,
A nod to talent, flawed, yet free.
Playful yet balanced! Let me know if you'd like a different tone.
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