|
 Menu
|
|
|
|
|
Social
|
|
|
|
|
Afterthoughts - Part 1
Contributed by
eleven7
on
Saturday, 2nd June 2012 @ 10:30:55 PM in AEST
Topic:
oops
|
dominic duff is tough as teak
and tackles with a will
he has puff and pace and good technique
lots of natural skill
sprays fine passes left and right
dribbles with great flair
his shots are sheer dynamite
he's lethal in the air
stylish, versatile, adept
at back, midfield or wing
he's really vintage class except
he's got this image thing
stick an elbow in a face
scotch a dodgy knee
spike them in a private place
quite accidentally
clip an ankle, rip a shirt
flash a stud or two
hack the markers till they hurt
kick their keeper too
do a nosedive, writhe in pain
just inside the box
send their bullyboys insane
with signs unorthodox
hit a striker, knock him flat
the minute play begins
drop some witty chit and chat
about his origins
such merry ploys are all the fashion
they're premier routine
the bruiser now and the assassin
police our football scene
you cavil like a callow youth
'rules! officials! ref!'
learn, you fool, eternal truth
that clique is dumb and deaf
and blind besides as belfry bats
which honest fans well know
pompous, whistle-happy prats
who like to spoil the show
where am i? yes, the big league boys
don't miss a dirty trick
they heed the coach like clockwork toys
except for dominic
who's quick and bold and twinkle-toed
each week his talents shine
though he won't do as he is told
and keep the party line
at throw-ins, would you credit it
he won't steal half a yard
he's never even merited
a single yellow card
he doesn't spit, he doesn't foul
he doesn't swear or scoff
or hit the deck with stricken howl
to get a fellow off
he won't dispute a stupid flag
scorns to show dissent
he's neither thug nor scallywag
in fact a proper gent
a real sporting paragon
decent through and through
a species nearly dead and gone
rare as diamond blue
fair and square, simon pure
corinthian to the core
a model player and mature
you couldn't ask for more
in point of fact the premier does
its whiz kids nowadays
are primed in tactics devious
and misanthropic ways
hot of head and hard of heart
honed on raw emotions
they wouldn't give a sparrow fart
for gentlemanly notions
see them swank from match to match
bejewelled and tattooed
a harum-scarum home-made batch
exuding attitude
see them flaunt like feisty girls
cosmetic airs and graces
screaming locks or gleaming skulls
on sleek designer faces
every time they notch a goal
see them run amok
they have this bolshie rigmarole
that leaves good folk in shock
jig and jaunt and flap and flip
rave like an imbecile
bare the torso, wave a strip
somersault, cartwheel
cut a gleeful stomach glide
into lush green grass
till you're smothered deep inside
a heaving, seething mass
of sweaty topsy-turvy mates
swopping hugs and snogs
revealing rather rampant traits
and dallying like dogs
while hordes of our newfangled fans
plus millions round tv
thrill to their shenanigans
and raise a mad whoopee
yes, every week that passes
you see indisciplines
filthy rich young asses
dressed up in lion skins
bring dishonour to the game
and do not give a hoot
paw and pant and know no shame
in the manner of the brute
it's but, you say, a bit of fun
a chummy little lark
there's always bonding to be done
on and off the park
oh yes, there's bonding once a week
and also at weekends
except of course for dominic
who diligently spends
his leisure time in sober style
eats fresh and wholesome food
walks wood and field for many a mile
and sleeps as athletes should
it's while he slumbers sweet and sound
his workmates come alive
they make their customary round
of pub and club and dive
swagger in the social swirl
the ritzy ballyhoo
smoke and suck and sniff their fill
swill bucketfuls of brew
city centre razzmatazz
midnight romps and revels
giddy girls ooze oohs and aahs
swoop and stomp like devils
city centre whirligig
hectic razzle-dazzle
rock and rollick, snort and swig
hanker after hassle
tipple till they're tanked enough
to hatch some dizzy jinks
they fancy doing macho stuff
when dripping in their drinks
guzzle lager to the gills
perspire through every pore
snuff and puff and pop more pills
strut the disco floor
stagger, scrabble, lunge and lurch
tip a table, trip a tray
they like a rumpus very much
a bit of aggro and affray
wait, you mutter, what's the point!
there's nothing new in this
our greatest stars would raze a joint
when they went on the *****
what balderdash and babble
what tripe and tommyrot!
you can't compare this rabble
this airy-fairy lot
with real stars, with great ones
who wove a wizard touch
we now breed automatons
work-rate clones and such
backs who huff and hustle
on high-speed forward runs
mid-field men of muscle
who feed the foreign turns
tweedledums and tweedledees
processed artisans
customised nonentities
clockwork fancy dans
where now the spirits fey and free
who teased the combat zones
pure natural ability
fair brimming from their bones
where the ones who played to please
and made the ball sing songs
mavericks whose melodies
silenced rival throngs
where's the ginger pudding
the lean and hungry waif
brave goalies fell to brooding
and no defence stood safe
when these two shimmied up the field
weaving mazy spells
stern rearguards soon rocked and reeled
bamboozled by . . . hell's bells,
you say i'm talking balls again
and frothing like a fool
i'm just a fossil specimen
a jaundiced johnny bull
a rickety old picklehead
with a mindless flaw
perhaps i haven't even heard
of scholes and denis law
you gaze at me and make a face
and swear i bore you stiff
i burble on, i lose the place
my story's gone skew-whiff
why can't i tell it pat and plain
like any normal person
step by step in simple vein
shorn of wild digression
keep it short and tell it straight
knit a steady thread
there's no great need to ventilate
the clutter in my head
cut, you say, the silly frills
ditch them double-quick
stick to goalmouth thrills and spills
awaken dominic!
it's symptomatic everywhere
diversion's now distraction
dumbed-down fans need speedy fare
and instant satisfaction
because their little bits of brain
are made of marzipan
a nitwit hen would quite disdain
their concentration span
dominic, you stipulate!
he's sleeping in his bed
which is where he shall remain
till all my spiel is said
see muck-a-mucks and millionaires
politicos who preen
see city slicks who truck in shares
the prawn and cocktail scene
see belching hordes of hooligans
pewed around the pitch -
our new prefabricated fans
the rabid and the rich
they shame the game, these phonies
these toadies and yahoos
the creeping boardroom cronies
the boyos on the booze
parasites and posers both
oafish and obscene
they aren't there, my holy oath
to see but to be seen
the people's game is going bad
less beauty and more beast
money-grubbing, money-mad
the honest fan gets fleeced
ripped off by greedy plc's
a sordid, thieving set
who gorge themselves on fatcat fees
then leave the club in debt
the grass is green, the ball is round
two teams come out to play
the buzz that used to fill the ground
is now a vulgar bray
a whistle sounds, a match begins
sleek sponsors and execs
watch only hireling manikins
with zeroes on their cheques
yes, bosman times are lucrative
a juicy free-for-all
where every kind of shark and spiv
sets up a market stall
where shyster agents ply their tricks
in every town and region
even tractor outfits from the sticks
now boast a foreign legion
bonanza times! prime telly cash
rich uncles, sugar daddies!
no wonder now the game's awash
in superstars and squaddies
mercenaries everywhere
(the major force is french)
and some indeed have skills to spare
while some prefer the bench
once they've clinched a jammy deal
earn scads of coin per week
a twitchy groin begins to squeal
a hamstring starts to tweak
once they take the gravy train
await the lame laments
flaked cartilage, a pelvic strain
punctured ligaments
they fret and brood excessively
embroider every hurt
even fully fit you'll seldom see
them sweating for the shirt
sure, now and then the odd surprise
arrives from overseas
extra special bargain buys
like the zolas and henrys
but they're mainly heebie-jeebies
careful of their limbs
obsessed with fees and freebies
prone to prickly whims
tripe, you say, most bosman boys
are happy at their work
they're not afraid to play their ploys
where mischief-makers lurk
with strict instructions to shanghai
our fetching foreign aces
to flex the studs and scythe knee-high
and claim some stretcher cases
such guys don't take it easy
they aren't fraught with fears
that hitmen bluff and breezy
will skitter their careers
accomplished players do not skive
but strive for what they get
they know how many beans make five
and readily assert
their mastery of ball mechanics
space and time and motion
they don't indulge in pets and panics
in spasms of emotion
calm and cultured in control
even stopper centre-backs
saunter upfield on a stroll
to pepper the attacks
skiffle with the ball and spray
fine passes with panache
aye, even centre-halves can play
as well as biff and bash
velvet grit and granite verve
power, poise, prowess
double-shuffle, swivel, swerve
with fervour and finesse
versatile, ambitious, clever
their coming fanned a flame
changed completely and forever
the way we play the game
okay, okay! just stop right there
you've gabbled long enough
sure, they've changed the premier
and guzzle at its trough
now, mind i mentioned unco guys
who really do excel
extra special bargain buys
like ronaldo and mikel
well, imported goods like these
eclipse our home-bred stock
because our crack academies
still put back the clock
still focus upon fitness stints
circuits in the gym
touchline jobs and sudden sprints
and finish with a swim
lots of lengthy, sweaty sessions
a dire cross-country run
hour by hour of hot exertions
five-a-sides for fun
too many coaches find it hard
to shed the old for new
do they adapt, do they discard
or maybe wed the two
when fresh ideas from abroad
are mocked as mere gimmicks
their pioneers classed as odd
arty-farty mimics
continental copycats
neurotics on the whole
conditioning our british brats
body, mind and soul
yes, fish grow fur and piggies fly
and moggies flap at mice
and premier managers are shy
and never less then nice
and santa calls on xmas eve
asleigh from land of lapp
romantics thrive on make-believe
and i am talking crap
my views, you say, are quite bizarre
muddled and cock-eyed
our coaching isn't up to par
our rookie lads denied
the fast-track priming that they need
attuned, high-flier themes
the disciplines they have to heed
to realise their dreams
solo tasks and teamwork drills
on and off the ball
a daily dose of basic skills
passing most of all
knowing when to run and pass
spot the channels, sense the space
pass and run on mud or grass
speed it up or slow the pace
when to chase and when to turn
when to mark and track
learn the day is often won
by building from the back
watch good practice from the past
revamped on video
matches with a famous cast
fontaine, eusebio
beckenbauer, johnny haynes
ardiles, charles and such
watch teams of beauty, bite and brains
like the magyars and the dutch
but first of all you watch brazil
in world cup winning ways
a mesmerising spectacle
that makes you gaze and gaze
it seems so nice and easy
their happy, rhythmic dance
so whimsical and breezy
a grand extravagance
garrincha jinking up the wing
the conjuror complete
servicing the future king
on corkscrew pixie feet
blue, green and gold embrace the beat
of maracana drums
it's fanfare time of trick and treat
and here young pele comes
pounces on the dipping cross
cool and debonair
defenders melt like candyfloss
and tackle empty air
hysteria! euphoria!
a rapturous salute
the carnival goes all gaga
as he contrives to shoot
twist 'n shake, jig 'n jive
dizzy pirouette
right foot strike, a raking drive
it's whizzing for the net
goal! a goal! a rocket goal!
bossa nova bliss
sambas rock and bongos roll
and . . . ach, i'm miles amiss
my fancy flies in ecstasy
minding such great play
zagalo, vava, didi
they waft my wits away
they didn't posture or oppress
niggle or annoy
theirs was a purist business
messengers of joy
whose artistry could never bore
or tax a teenage head
deploy them at your teaching core
brazil from a to z
aye, coach the basics week by week
from films such as these
teamwork, tempo and technique
solo expertise
freeze the action, analyse
test it on the field
disregard the groans and sighs
as brutal truth's revealed
pleasing patterns on a screen
seem so smooth and sane
now they find this mean machine
is patented on pain
yes, it seemed a doddle
football at a blink
but this exclusive model
isn't what they think
circles, diamonds and triangles
loop and link and flit and flow
tie the other sides in tangles
one-touch, two-touch, quick-quick-slow
lose the ball, so win it back
pursue it with aggression
harass and harry as a pack
till you retrieve possession
start again but stay alert
don't go hell-for-leather
it takes serenity and sweat
to put this act together
it takes an age to grasp each move
to groove and improvise
and early training sessions prove
a horrible surprise
confusion! clutter! utter mess!
it's quite impossible
and very far from effortless
this blueprint of brazil!
the wise coach knows the difference
what's easy on the eye
derives from constant diligence
and comes in short supply
aptitude is not enough
nor fitness, strength and speed
if you aspire to big league stuff
it's inner drive you need
unflagging single-mindedness
he tells each wannabe
there's the ticket to success
the vital quality
the coach, mind you, can get it wrong
beset by ifs and buts
he sifts and culls the soft and strong
the maybes from the mutts
he vetoes some erratic kid
who neither marks nor shoots
two seasons on a million quid
won't buy his sponsored boots
pro football is a funny game
star-crazy and star-crossed
for every upstart who wins fame
ten thousand more are lost
a lottery! pure hit-or-miss
fickle fortune's whim
one minute they cry god, gee whiz
we've got to go for him
he really looks the beckham part
the perfect p r dream
the next they reckon he lacks heart
he's surplus to the team
anyway, it's puskas now
1950's superman
and many soccer buffs avow
the eternal number one
budding starlets need to study
this wee guy overweight
no, i'm not being fuddy-duddy
he's the greatest of the great
a paunchy cove of major rank
bull neck and barrel chest
a pocket tank who ate and drank
with earthy zeal and zest
see his left, a polished peg
in deft and dandy mode
yet deadly as a powder keg
ever ready to explode
caps eighty-four, goals eighty-three
scored with that same foot
the other leg just dangled free
and his heading was a hoot
he led them to exalted levels
his squad of superstars
the mighty magyars, the red devils
hungary's proud hussars
they played with bite and beauty
shored by classy backs
puskas, czibor, hideghuti
in lickety-split attacks
spot-on passing, supple roles
made scoring swift and sweet
netted them a glut of goals
against the world's elite
they came to wembley, won six - three
though england did their best
then, insult upon injury
seven - one in budapest
twelve and twenty, thirty-two
matches undefeated
imagine! is it really true?
will it ever be repeated!
by then a near veteran . .
retirement? god forbid!
no, he mapped a better plan
he'd settle in madrid
di stéfano's already there
another ageless star
today's caudillos don't compare
mere shrimps to caviar
the great blond arrow's will to win
wouldn't let him stop
even though his hair was wearing thin
he'd plenty still on top
he'd graze on every blade of grass
and time could not diminish
the impromptu move, the elusive pass
the smooth majestic finish
and paco gento rates a mention
a manic box of tricks
defenders quaked in apprehension
developed nervous tics
big strapping backs fell gibbering
shivered in their skins
whenever he zipped down the wing
on perky little pins
he'd skip and scoot and loop the loop
prankish as a puppy
he's cock a snook and cock-a-hoop
practise keepie-uppie!
they're soon a virtuoso side
in a brand-new bernabeau
and on a glorious copa ride
five europas in a row
sure, coach with cameo and clip
choose key material
but for sheer craftsmanship
show eintracht v real
a final with a message stark
for zenophobic sorts
one summer night at hampden park
jam-packed with roaring scots
who hadn't seen this stuff before
and rooted in high spirits
fast, flowing football on the floor
served up for ninety minutes
plus goals in plenty! seven - three
despite some staunch defence
a rare, exotic recipe
a feast of excellence
by god, these foreign guys were good
two sides with skills to spare
they basically understood
a bladder full of air
moves much faster than a man
and hit with vim and vision
precision passing truly can
confuse the opposition
the scots applaud them to the skies
and strangely do not quibble
when not a single player tries
a good old-fashioned dribble
zig and zag and twist and turn
tease them to a tizzy
do a shimmy, dummy run
drive defenders dizzy
swerve and swivel, come and go
back and fore and fore and back
wiggle-waggle to and fro
show a wizard knack
oh yes, it's wonderful to watch
it titillates, beguiles
yet hardly ever wins a match
despite these weird wiles
yes, such art enthrals the masses
ballwork brave and droll
but by the time the artiste passes
or has a crack at goal
the rearguard has rallied
ramparts are restored
because he dilly-dallied
and totally ignored
his wing-backs overlapping
his strikers finding space
they're frothing now and flapping
and purple in the face
now the box is cluttered
with bodies bellicose
obnoxious words are muttered
and curses come to blows
baulk and jostle, cheek by jowl
skirmish tooth and nail
but, one eye shut, the ref cries foul
it's all to no avail
once again a chance is lost
and he has hurt the team
if only he had passed or crossed
not dribbled in a dream
likely they'd have caused a shock
heroes to a man
with but a minute on the clock
they'd win it zero-one!
ach, dreams are two-a-penny
eintracht and real
pay scant regard if any
to things imaginal
these maestros, though, can dribble too
it's there for all to see
but selfish sideshows they eschew
they do it differently
see that small one, strongly built
bursting down the middle
like an arrow, at full tilt
without one twirl or twiddle
a mere twitching of the hips
a bit of buttock jigging
befools the back before he rips
a rocket at the rigging
see yon midfield he-man
dispensing grief and dole
once in a while this demon
as if to ease his soul
chooses to caress the ball
flirts with it instead
then light of foot and lyrical
he sallies on ahead
jinks and juggles up the field
leaves tacklers in the lurch
it's plain as day this link and shield
enjoys an angel's touch
hurries forward at full lick
with subtle skews and tacks
phantom feints and fetches slick
hoodwink the centre-backs
no indeed, he's not a dreamer
who doodles on the job
now he shapes to hit a screamer
dupes the keeper with a lob
the film catches it fine well
solo, ad-lib stuff
real and eintracht personnel
who dribble off the cuff
who wow the crowd as you'd expect
excite and tantalise
with sorties sudden and direct
and shots that pop the eyes
mind you, the crowd's already wowed
by magic carpet skills
already marvels long and loud
at constant miracles
they say it was the greatest game
the best there's ever been
a million fans still fondly claim
their presence on the scene
still can't resist a chronic need
to tell a first-hand tale
kick by kick and screed on screed
they dazzle with detail
(it wasn't normal british fare
no, this was master class
the ball refused to go by air
preferred to stay on grass
god's truth, but every blessed guy
however much harassed
scorned to put it in the sky
and passed and passed and passed)
they tell each move and counter-move
and what the highlights were
particulars which clearly prove
that they were really there
we pay them due attention
note how proud they feel
it would be rude to question
such undoubted zeal
or mention with a muted yawn
they'd maybe turned up late
since most of them were barely born
on that historic date
nineteen-sixty, may thirteen
a very special night
europe-wide on the telly screen
live in black and white
not a gremlin! no one cursed
or booed the referee!
it was a famous double-first
for football and tv
aye, fans do tend to fantasise
and sometime live the dream
they'll fill you full of mellow lies
to boost their self-esteem
technically, yes, they lie
they weren't there in person
so what! since then they've seen the tie
in each and every version
and still they tingle and enthuse
and sniffle happy tears
still hold the same unshrinking views
after fifty years!
this was stuff they didn't see
on saturday afternoon
fine-spun football flowing free
to a quickstep tune
the real thing! the people's game
in all its simple glory
absolutely not the same
old rough and tumble story
the same stale sport of kick and rush
crush the so-and-so's
forget all goody-goody mush
respecting fellow pros
hurt the strikers, do not spare
the sure two-footed crunch
catch their skipper in the air
with a rabbit punch
tackle like a terrier
maul them front and back
flash the studs until you hear
a metatarsal crack
up and at them every chance
don't give a devil's damn
adopt the fierce aggressive stance
you picked up in your pram . . .
dads and granddads most of all
would glower at the scene
go berserk on the couch and bawl
for god's sake, get stuck in!
of course it was the same at school
a playground education
enforcers proud and purposeful
ruled through confrontation
stroppy brutes who kicked you silly
dished it out dingdong
until you kowtowed willy-nilly
and bootlicked to belong
because you had begun to twig
those rough and raw cadets
those rowdy brats so bad and big
were also teachers' pets
aye, agents, touts and top team scouts
crowded the touch-lines
come to watch these catchment louts
the champion under-nines
soften up a rival side
buffet them to bits
then ruthless as the roaring tide
launch a scoring blitz
goodness and mercy have they none
they just pound on pell-mell
and though the league's already won
the county shield as well
they know that spotters hover
to monitor their play
alert for boys who bovver
and flourish in a fray
alert for pre-teen sluggers
fit and tall and tough
mean, accomplished muggers
professional enough
not to dither or get shoddy
or skylark for a laugh
get that gifted, little body
slice the squirt in half
give and take but mostly give
do what you must do
prove that you're competitive
vicious through and through
put the challenge in waist high
claim it was mischance
watch him wave the game goodbye
from an ambulance
weaving through, he took the whack
a knee-cap snapped in pieces
now he's writhing on his back
as aspiration ceases
officials shrug, his dad is told
rules are rules, good heavens
the lad's at least a month too old
to stay at under-sevens
we do our best, we organise
we're always strict and straight
but leagues don't run on strength and size
or sides of equal weight
we operate the proper way
at each succeeding stage
our system's much more workaday
it's simply based on age
they're all mad keen to make the team
these nippy lads and small
they're like the cats that got the cream
when summoned to the ball
by mad keen teacher coaches
who pick their squads with care
who loath seeing kids on crutches
or wheeling in a chair
so it goes! the people's game
is goodly yet uncouth
sometimes savage, sometimes tame
rough as well as smooth
a devilish affliction
a heavenly allure
a general addiction
beyond all earthly cure
beyond all rhyme and reason
it consumes the human race
season after season
besots the populace
frantic fans in fervent moods
infest its grassy shrines
the faithful in their multitudes
chanting mantras, making signs
savouring the sacred joys
eating pies and taking sips
greeting shrill their golden boys
divine in skin-tight strips
for goodness' sake, do get a grip
the irksome voices whine
this stuff's thin on zing and zip
and slight on storyline
you fart about and flap and flail
a hopeless, headless chicken
is it so hard to spin a tale
that makes the pulses quicken
you just meander on and on
like a blatherskite
mouthing off a marathon
of psychobabble *****e
they're often right, the voices
(and usually civil)
attentive with advices
seldom spouting drivel
this time, though, they reckon wrong
i'm really in control
my story's on the ball and strong
i've got a clear goal
mind that little, likely lad
stretchered off the pitch
and mind his apoplectic dad
railing round and rich
at those official flannelled fools
in blazers and school ties
who blandly state that rules are rules
then blink their mildewed eyes
do they truly still believe
the sporting spirit lives?
are they truly so naive
those smooth executives
those backseat power blocs who bask
in structures obsolete
who stare in shock when parents ask
why children should compete
and why should dates-of-birth decide
the grades where pupils play
surely size and strength provide
a better, fairer way?
okay, okay! no more harangues!
please don't say any more
don't rant and rage and bare the fangs
we've heard it all before!
yes, nineteen-sixty, may thirteen
when millions fell in thrall
to football ways just newly seen
from eintracht and real
and things would never be the same
it was the wind of change
our hack-and-hoof-it native game
would soon seem passing strange
soon we'd see fine streamlined teams
instead of innocents
but sometimes, ach, our best-laid schemes
are subject to events
situations will arise
often unforeseen
realities that paralyse
perhaps what might have been
aye, folk of every stripe and sort
were more or less agreed
we'd need to remedy or rot
our game had run to seed
slack on art and aptitude
on style that entertains
our tactics less than half as good
as germany or spain's
so we raised a ready chorus
craved a speedy fix
lord preserve us and restore us
we got sixty-six!
hail the heroes! chant and sing and
union jacks unfurled
salute alf ramsay's ing-er-land
champions of the world!
our matches were at wembley
every single one
a home-sweet-home assembly
strictly partisan
at first, though, many fans went flat
aghast at what they saw
now what would finney make of that!
would matthews gape in awe!
for on the field our pick and prime
were doing shameful things
perpetrating football crime -
playing without wings!
it gets worse! where's jimmy greaves
the greatest in the land?
i swear to god, our gaffer leaves
him sitting in the stand
he isn't suitable at all
he cannot be controlled
he'll do wonders with a ball
but won't do as he's told
a nifty, nippy cockney star
who scores majestic goals
he's alpha plus, a vintage car
unfit for common roles
see him nip and see him dart
a wily, weaving wisp
adept at ripping walls apart
with passes slick and crisp
he'll work unwearied in attack
inventive and prolific
but marking, tackling, tracking back
his attitude's horrific
which is why he earns a snub
why heels are all he kicks
because there's neither bench nor sub
in nineteen sixty-six
well, our wingless wonders
enjoy their share of luck
they make some early blunders
but do not run amuck
they stick with ramsay's vision
the drills which he devised
despite the shrill derision
of a nation scandalised
by argy-bargy antics
and much midfield ado
it wasn't for romantics
this four-four-two
a trim and shipshape name to call
a system short on image
a shambolic, messy brawl
a ninety-minute scrimmage!
of course it's since been civilised
it's now much prized and pure
even then wise coaches recognised
its tactical allure
anyway, they see it through
all very grim and gory
sweat blood as they were bid to do
and bless their splendid goalie
defend in depth, we mustn't lose
our honour is at stake
just play it tight until we choose
to hit them on the break
be dogged if not dashing
rugged, not refined
give their pivots a good bashing
stamp on all that kind
but don't concede, the gaffer said
stand your ground gung-ho
you sneak a goal, you go ahead
your confidence will grow
besides, it happens often
even tip-top teams
drop their iron discipline
when pestered to extremes
it isn't pretty but it works
you knock them off their stride
you clean their faces free of smirks
and prick their lordly pride
sure, this system isn't pretty
but winning ugly's not a sin
what matters is the nitty-gritty
our country's willing us to win
indeed it is! forget the sneers
forget the gloom and doom
listen to the swell of cheers
from terrace, pub and room
from wherever people watch
on pins and needles, in a stew
till a wallop seals the match
pips the germans four-two
a wicked strike, a shot sublime
as both sides gasp and grind
as panic spreads in extra-time
(no spot-kicks then, you'll mind)
there goes the whistle! what a story
not at all a fairy-tale
alfie's heroes crowned in glory
capture football's holy grail
the final whistle! great elation
celebrations last for weeks
fans dilate with admiration
on the tactics and techniques
which our mastermind devised
to deny the very best
the guile with which he organised
his players for the test
just turn the key and lock the door
resist with tooth and claw
remember if they do not score
the least you get's a draw
so block and chase and cramp their space
declare a buffer zone
a rougher, more unwelcome place
than they have ever known
dent their jaunty foreign phlegm
let their tempers spill
then if jackie doesn't get them
nobby surely will
see their full-backs feeling surplus
since they've nobody to mark
off they go to join the rumpus
in the middle of the park
from their peaceful little acre
safe and sound and well-secured
yes, our canny mischief-maker
has conveniently lured
this twosome from the touchline beat
they've trodden seasons long
and, yes, the ruse has worked a treat
his gambit can't go wrong
since now there's lots of space to spare
for instant flank attacks
forays easy to prepare
thanks to absent backs
well, the signal's nothing special
an upfield punt as planned
nicely kicked as at rehearsal
into no man's land
then a surge, a scorching cross
across the box on cue
their centre-backs lurch at a loss
outnumbered five to two
aye, we've a streaker on the wing
and a striker like an ox
plus three midfielders in full swing
swooping on their box
stretching for a killer touch
to clinch an edgy tie
we want that winner very much
clouted hard and high
so there you are! a great success
our four-four-two in essence
defensive boredom to excess
with blinks of effervescence
yet here, there and everywhere
at home and work and play
you'll find that folk no longer care
what the scoffers have to say
folk who now strut ten feet tall
declare with emphasis
we mustn't change our style at all
just keep it as it is
we've got to stick to this routine
our youth must not be gulled
we're neither hackneyed nor has-been
we're champions of the world!
and being ranked at number one
warrants we're high class
so any borrowed new-look plan
would now be merely crass
well, folk are much in favour
the bulk of them say yes
let's all rejoice and savour
the pickings of success
such good fun, such merry sport
the fleeting taunt, the passing tease
and so agreeable to gloat
at ancient enemies
which means, of course, the bagpipe tribes
a boozy lot quite lost to shame
exuding anti-saxon vibes
they belch through every game
but, typical, those pesky scots
are having none of this
they've a surprise for patriots
who try to take the *****
alas, next season they're the first
to pay a wembley visit
devil take them! we're accursed
while they are pure exquisite
To be continued .... Part 2 soon!
Copyright ©
eleven7
... [
2012-06-02 22:30:55]
(Date/Time posted on
site)
Advertisments:
|
|
|
|
|
|
Sorry, comments are no longer allowed for anonymous, please register for a free membership to access this feature and more
|
|
All comments are owned by the poster. Your Poetry
Dot Com is not responsible for the content of any
comment.
That said, if you find an offensive comment, please
contact via the FeedBack Form with details, including poem title
etc.
|
|
|
Re: Afterthoughts - Part 1
(User Rating: 1 )
by Former_Member on
Sunday, 3rd June 2012 @ 02:05:39 AM AEST
(User
Info | Send
a Message)
|
Football, I was confused. I liked it, but it's not American.
Then, I know, sorry I call it soccer.
What a vocabulary you have. And it's only volume one.
Well, I have no idea of how many volumes you have in mind,
but --- and I mean this, there's a lot of action in your words.
I mean to say you write very very well. It's a big open field, quick and brilliant athletes, with skill, uncommon football skills, and the underpinnings, strategies, team fundamentals, as well as the bull in officiating, or what you can get away with now, in such a practiced art.
How can you slow the game down, twist it to your fancy?
Enthusiast know the game, it never ends, what will be tried and true next?
I don't know. Don't know the game. Lot's of history I'm sure, even the players might extract something from, or maybe they were just born unortodox.
Long poem. Brilliant, doesn't begin to ever quit! In writing or football, or, as in anything really good should.
Peace!
|
|
|
|
· 
Poetry
Community
Members
Areas
Reference
Search
Top
Others
