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Afterthoughts - Part 3
Contributed by
eleven7
on
Sunday, 9th September 2012 @ 04:43:43 PM in AEST
Topic:
oops
|
you’re not to get it in the neck
nothing further will be said
in future, though, we’ll triple check
you’re fast asleep in bed
instead of skipping into town
and swigging fizzy drinks
debauched by sirens from sundown
until the dawning blinks
and finds you fuddled in the street
riddled by cold air
but where oh where those witches sweet
and frolicsome and fair?
how very odd! they disappear!
there’s just this moped mob
who flash around in snappy gear
on a photo job!
he smirks, which is as near as
he ever gets to smile
for a little spell the atmosphere’s
safe from rant and rile
again he wonders where they go
those nymphs who melt like mist
yes, time to let the ninnies know
last night’s exciting tryst
wasn’t accidental
not some happy chance
no star-spun, sentimental
celestial romance
wait! bide a bit! the time’s not ripe
to serve more humble pies
though pretty soon he’ll need to wipe
the stardust from their eyes
confide the wenches were decoys
and they the chosen prey
three bashful, bumpkin, country boys
enchanted, led astray
flushed with feelings, flesh on fire
smitten out and in
throbbing spasms of desire
pulsing through their skin
unversed in the seductive arts
how could they ever guess
such cute appeal would steal their hearts
then sell them to the press!
listen, pal! that’s quite enough
you yap and yap and yap
soppy, smoochie, spoony guff
lovey-dovey pap!
your tale’s becoming far too tall
far too bloody long
pro gaffers seldom speak at all
when things go badly wrong
when careful plans go all to pot
they rarely rend the skies
but concentrate on what they’ve got
and mend and improvise
they don’t create a great to-do
and clack away and drool
and drench us in a gooey spew
of far-fetched cock-and-bull
concerning slinky, sultry girls
molls of mystery
duping tongue-tied teenage churls
as lovesick as can be
your story’s garbled, inexact
full of vague impressions
except for one huge, glaring fact
that implicates three persons
make no mistake, these guys are *****
the pictures do not lie
arms entwined, they lurch and list
befuddled and awry
yet we play at silly devils
and drivel on like you
pretending these are puzzling revels
why and how and who?
were they sent, the wenches three
to prickle and confuse
upset our pre-match harmony
fix it so we lose?
who knows! some gangland artifice
a global betting sting
to fleece old bookie enemies
from vegas to beijing
or maybe a stock market ploy
before a buy-out bid
a shock defeat, no euro joy
the share price on the skid!
aye, we’re forever taking swerves
away from sane suggestions
getting on each other’s nerves
with idiotic questions
away on wild and skittish loops
what fancy tales we weave
plucking weird, wondrous scoops
from the land of make-believe!
not unlike a tabloid hack
drafting football prattle
bits of faction, bits of flak
diced in tittle-tattle
in idle speculations
incidental fuss
titbit revelations
items mischievous
honest fans of course deplore
these creative skills
piffling padding and no more
thin on facts and fat on frills
football data’s all we ask
basic pros and cons
is it such an awesome task
to draw comparisons
to depict contrasting styles
cite the spoilers and the spinners
proffer fair and frank profiles
on super saints and sinners?
that is all we want to read
in a match report
not some artificial screed
making waggish sport
of extravagant ambition
wacky off-field capers
mad officials lacking vision
whatever peddles papers
titles of high quality
top tv reviews
nod to this reality
blithely pick and choose
incidents of minor pith
which they aggrandise
then titillate their public with
merry wit and wise
much more than mere telling
of the basic stats
with cameos compelling
of fleeting touchline spats
managerial bickering
sulky gestures, dirty looks
ungentlemanly sniggering
fingerly rebukes
or they may guy a toffee-nose
on an ego-trip
some goalie apt to preen and pose
told to get a grip
i twitter on! football blether
never really stops
like people’s health and wealth and weather
and prices in the shops
we cannot speak enough of it
there’s always more to say
with pithy words and pungent wit
we keep our tongues in play
articulate and eloquent
dispensing fair opinions
incisive and intelligent
to attentive millions
the candid views of honest fans
shared with diffidence
though not with certain partisans
hell-bent upon offence
who greet us with hostility
howling vile abuse
genetic incivility
a bloody good excuse
for loud participation
windpipes at full pitch
rude retaliation
responses lewd and rich
now switch me off and kindly stop
this wordy, windy glut
i’ll go and suck a lollipop
and keep my mouthpiece shut
i’m no pundit! i’m no hack
chasing breaking news!
i’ve no yen for yackety-yak
and ever-changing views
who am i to sniff and scoff
at each and every trend
yes, it’s time to switch me off
amen! finis! the end!
you beam at me and raise a glass
and nod your mellow head
most coverage, you deem, is crass
we don’t believe what’s said
we’re none of us immune, you guess
to verbal diarrhoeia
you beam at me as you profess
it’s not a bad idea
yes, oral constipation
would maybe do the trick
we’d all have less occasion
for football rhetoric
so you mean to take a break!
well, we’ll miss your slants
the cogent comments folk mistake
for arty-farty rants
no, not all of us, just those
who pitch their patter plain
and practise anglo-saxon prose
unpolished and profane
my own respect is less than great
for louts who act like that
who eff and blind and spout their hate
until the ball goes flat
as nowadays it often does
time and time again
if moves don’t chime and things don’t buzz
goodbye, they bid, amen!
fair-weather fans behave just so
they’re prone to manic fits
you raved yourself a while ago
as if you’d lost your wits
but don’t forget you’re now exempt
from all this post-match strain
you now observe with cold contempt
such garrulous refrain
remember you’re now one of us
a member of the clan
you’re not a rabble chorus
you’re an honorary fan
who scans the pitch for quality
like flawless backbone skills
strikers’ raw mentality
the latest goalie frills
magic moments from the spot
how to skirt a wall
backshift boys we rarely spot
though they control it all
so many things keep taking place
that pass spectators by
you cannot even blink in case
a mote gets in your eye
or matters more vexatious
may infect your liver
like derby day invasions
from across the river
oh damn it all and pardon me
i’ve done this bit before
the sabre-rattling rivalry
the ancient tribal lore
no more of that! now listen
you’ll need an anodyne
codeine, say, or aspirin
will fill the bill just fine
nightly i take two of them
before i go to bed
they calm me down and gently stem
the turmoil in my head
they’re very safe, these tiny pills
no side-effects, i find
you don’t soil sheets in sweats and chills
but sleep and ease your mind
aye, drinking’s part and parcel
of our people’s game
we swill and watch and watch and swill
and shout bravo or shame!
it’s bottom’s up and down the hatch
win or draw or lose
whatever happens in a match
we put to rights with booze
now, though, there is less respite
since many pubs rent channels
that show live action every night
with well-appointed panels
oh yes, we go on principle
you can’t spurn goods like that
the standard’s irresistible
and so’s the expert chat
chaired by former superstars
recently retired
unsparing on particulars
nice or nasty as required
it could be juve v real
delle alpi or the bernabeau
santos against nacional
bayern at the san siro
or river plate and penarol
celtic versus rangers
barca hosting espanyol
all civil, friendly strangers!
bargain buys! scrumptious treats
from china to peru
as cheap as supermarket sweets
at a venue near you
lager, nips, a bag of chips
perhaps a taxi journey
some odds and ends like service tips
sheer bliss for paltry money!
poppycock! she’ll sniff and snort
what shoddy lies i speak!
though family funds keep running short
i’m there three times a week
i’m a fickle, idle rogue
of low-life origins!
she then recites a catalogue
of selfish hubbie sins
i think we’ll skip the details
as she gets quite upset
maligning feeble-minded males
and screeching about debt
prickly as a porcupine
impervious to reason
challenging the cheques i sign
season after season
tickets for each premier tie
home fixtures and away
which we attend, the kids and i
to watch our idols play
cup-ties too and euro trips
the odd long-distance hop
resplendent in our sponsored strips
from the club co-op
we follow, follow everywhere
for we are faithful fans
not because we do not care
about her household plans
more lies! she hoots with passion
severe and intense
football’s snuffed our ration
of decent commonsense
the game is too much with us
overdone and overblown
she has a right to raise a fuss
and she is not alone
countless other spouses scream
we aren’t wise at all
splurging cash on a silly team
hoofing a plastic ball
hysterical, they howl and claim
there’s nothing in the kitty
can’t we see the people’s game
treats people pretty *****ty?
not so! this isn’t club control
but the price we’re bound to pay
it’s an accounting of the soul
a sacrifice, we say
not some humbug influence
or dumb indiscipline
we’re guided in all innocence
by a still, small voice within
more guff, they’ll howl, another ruse
a calling from above!
football pilgrims who can’t choose
but follow their first love
sure, pigs will fly and mice will roar
and rivers run uphill
the sun will shine forever more
before you pay a bill!
now leave it there! that’s quite enough
you’re being far too brash
delete all this domestic stuff
or risk a sore backlash
so speak the fogeys, sipping malts
at their chimney table
sages who, despite old faults
keep soccer-slick and stable
they bleak from corrugated faces
weary with vexation
remark on endless wild-goose chases
and irksome deviation
regret that we’re so boring
as boring as can be
begin a bleak outpouring
peevish, peppery
emphasising everyone’s
not swooning with delight
in the eyes of many fans
we babble with no bite
but we’re adept at self-applause
and clever-dick assertions
which is why despite the flaws
some think we’re honest persons
so speak the elders as they tally
our literary sins
like storylines that shilly-shally
before one ends, the next begins
or pieces dressed in rhyme and rhythm
fancy primped as fact
why do we reckon folk so dim
and easy to distract
so daft they see no difference
can’t tell chalk from cheese
which items waft a whiff of sense
and which are fripperies
loose ends flapping in the air
lots of lazy lies
slapdash stuff and devil-may-care
no, don’t apologise
just wait a bit! there’s other things
we also want to say
apart from gouty mutterings
we have respects to pay!
we’re awed by your tenacity
and sheer application
despite an odd capacity
for mass alliteration
despite each frilly body-swerve
sidestep, roundabout
you’ve stuck with it and kept your nerve
and swept away all doubt
as to your skill and sanity
to tackle such a task
though we’d have mentioned vanity
if you had thought to ask
because the people to persuade
will flatter to a fault
until your project gets mislaid
in some forgotten vault
perhaps because it threatens
their easy-osy hours
like other bolshie cretins
you’re out to scotch their powers
you’re just a gung-ho dreamer
hyping soccer’s plight
another red redeemer
who’ll put the system right
admittedly, your thesis
is beautiful in bits
but comfy in their offices
they’ll see few benefits
hang it all, that verse’s a mess!
our sense of tense is smitten
how on earth could they assess
what hasn’t yet been written?
no, it’s witty, you insist
it shows old minds are sharp
we aren’t gaga or exist
in some historic warp
hey, old age is not an issue
if football’s what you crave
it afflicts your whole life through
from the cradle to the grave
so frankly we don’t really need
a hoary compliment
we’re an oldish, blimpish breed
but not incompetent
though now we’re dawdling just like you
rather jolty, out of joint
doing what we shouldn’t do
skewing off the point
well, let’s go straight! it’s time to ditch
scoops and scams and such
we’ll stick with football on the pitch
beginning with the dutch
do you mind how we enthused
about the great brazil
how pele and his pals bemused
the planet with their skill
about the might magyars
in pioneering roles
puskas and his diamond stars
designing wondrous goals
about the royals of madrid
a team of many nations
how we gawped at what they did
supreme new age sensations!
we scanned old film black and white
watched vamped-up videos
aflame with lyrical delight
you went and wrote all those
fine lines of praise and glory
lavish rave reviews
this was no hot story
not tomorrow’s news
yet you knew where you were going
you were heeding good advice
vivid verses fresh and flowing
full of feeling, full of spice
might arouse the lumpish masses
galvanise the crowds
maybe prick the blazered classes
heedless in the clouds
yes, you knew what you were doing
you were penning simple plans
no puffery, no ballyhooing –
then, alas, you meet the fans
we mean, of course, the honest ones
the conscience of the sport
though scoffers call them charlatans
and smarty-pants support
yet in sunny times or storms
they do not miss a match
starchy in their uniforms
they keep a beady watch
check the rank and file is there
all present and correct
to belt the songs and shout and swear
their utter disrespect
for wild weekend invasions
when unwelcome guests
bellow provocations
and mock our interests
especially in foreign banks
offshore, far away
in dealings done to stoke the ranks
with infants who can play
prodigies who’ll fill the gaps
in our academies
whenever local stocks collapse
we traffic overseas
and what’s so wicked about this?
for years this has been
a profitable business
and premier routine!
they’d lots of revelations
stuff like the above
off-field machinations
tales of hate and love
the comings and the goings
of dissipated stars
the to-ings and the fro-ings
of the latest tsars
sure, you listened avidly
and got illumination
the game’s much more, they made you see
than matchday expectation
the premier is much, much more
than just a super league
it’s even coded metaphor
for megabuck intrigue
for buying cheap and selling dear
on a global scale
it’s the realm of the racketeer
who never goes to jail
who makes a bomb on dotcom fraud
on vague computer crime
then launders all the loot abroad
and skips the scene in time
stories about glorious booms
about inglorious busts
the goodly moments and the glooms
gourmet feasts or crusts
it’s mind contamination
daily and intense
sensation on sensation
designed to influence
the musings of the masses
our weakness for romance
it’s not because we’re asses
we seek extravagance
but because each humdrum day
it offers a release
something unforeseen to say
a conversation piece
conveyed with dry conviction
free of boring fact
a funny bit of fiction
spun solely to extract
a few rare beams of sunshine
from frosty, wintry souls
withered by a lifetime whine
at biased refs and offside goals
so funny even cynics laugh
at least affect a grin
before they scan each paragraph
for parables within
perhaps a hint of hidden fire
titbits still to come
tales of envy and desire
discomfiting for some
but yummy fare for customers
who love such situations
and couldn’t give a monkey’s cuss
for on-field fluctuations
it’s offbeat capers that they crave
conveyed in juicy leaks
when home-bred heroes misbehave
and hog the news for weeks
aye, pots of money can be earned
from premier spin-offs
you listened avidly and learned
why fat tycoons and toffs
were not the only ones to see
the good times coming
and seize the opportunity
to get the markets humming
drumming up a clientele
in teeming, untapped lands
our reps had images to sell
and celebrated brands
and sponsorships and . . . bloody hell
we’ve gone a touch askew
we’ve got these urgent things to tell
but blether on like you!
yes, you detest the hurry-scurry
of big league enterprise
the hectic money-grabbing flurry
the busy fingers in the pies
boardroom greed is sordid stuff
you constantly refrain
yes, indeed! that’s true enough
yet how do we explain
this filthy rich fixation
that puts you in a stew
this manic wealth creation
begun in ninety-two
the year when the first division
went and changed its name
which many deemed a naff decision
but very soon became
our pride and joy, the premier
a global cynosure
a structure envied everywhere
powerful and pure
especially in playing skills
if not in other ways
like if you fail to pay the bills
you fall on evil days
inevitably, clubs will fall
into dire arrears
because the owners get in thrall
to licensed profiteers
fashionable high street banks
and lesser loan sharks too
exploiting interest rates with thanks
accruing revenue
piles on piles of solid cash
from upstart soccer bosses
who foresee a coming crash
and cushion private losses
by purchasing a slick machine
with a golden touch
a better buy there’s never been
thank you very much
the dutch, you mutter! yes, okay
just wait a little while
first it’s fitting to convey
the utter greed and guile
which sees our country’s pride and joy
as mere merchandise
a useful debt dispensing toy
that readily supplies
a steady cashflow, stream on stream
precious and profuse
a sterling outlet to redeem
a mess of iou’s
well, time to wash away the mess
restore your trademark name
revive the family business
play the premier game
grab as much as you can get
it’s time to hit the trail
tell them that a date’s been set
the club is up for sale
you’re the owner, after all
so you decide what’s what
besides, you’ve earned the wherewithal
bye-bye and that is that
your factories and doing fine
from detroit to tampa bay
on each reprieved assembly line
delighted workers pay
tribute to the risks extreme
you took to save their jobs
investing in some glitzy scheme
dreamt up by limey snobs
some ostentatious fantasy
a super league refined
maybe it was e s p
that made you buy it blind
or maybe desperation
a gamble to stay rich
or a sense of fascination
which would soon bewitch
not only english fans but ones
east and west and pole to pole
both purists and vulgarians
enthusing heart and soul
blimps and bigots voicing coos
drooling in a trance
likewise yobboes and yahoos
succumbing all at once
to a feast of beauty
football at its best
investors felt a duty
to show an interest
in a product rare indeed
ingredients dearly bought
remarkable for flair and speed
especially of thought
one-touch, two-touch, pass, pass, pass
pass and keep possession
keep it moving on the grass
with adequate aggression
and total application
all for one and one for all
ceaseless concentration
on and off the ball!
yes, the premier’s a winner
from the very start
a prodigious money-spinner
cunning in the art
of delivering at a level
other nations fail to match
so let them go and join the devil
we’re the boys to watch!
which is why we catch the eye
of every kind of chancer
for instance, there’s a yankee guy
scrabbling for an answer
to the pressing question
of a safety net
since market indigestion
is spawning massive debt
and since his business concerns
already feel the chill
he’s not the sort who sits and yearns
for an early miracle
it happens! some big owners
each a hallowed name
become bewildered moaners
disgruntled with the game
weren’t they always in the black
never in the red!
when the cash supply went slack
they did without instead!
they were frugal, full of care
dealing decently!
take a look, the books are there
if you want to see!
but now they can’t be really sure
if they’re poor or rich
now income and expenditure
are mystic notions which
they check on private telly
which in a twinkle beams
texts both sweet and smelly
about tomorrow’s teams
and fixture lists and big match dates
impending euro trips
family-class subscription rates
the latest sponsorships
impressive reconstruction plans
requiring hard decisions
excessive comments from the fans
regarding league positions
then faxes from the faddists
who crave a home-made side
waving electronic fists
against the rising tide
of alien invaders
blond and black and brown and red
sophisticated raiders
despite being born and bred
in far and feudal places
aloof from football’s roots
oozing airs and graces
bravura in their boots
push a button! there they are
the new tv sensations
hordes of them and each a star
in our league of nations
a crying shame! there’s no excuse!
the faddists howl in fever
why can’t our coaching schools produce
a native high-achiever!
our squads are stacked with foreign brats
a brash, exotic mix
add lots of dais and macs and pats . . .
and think of sixty-six
we still turn pale and trembly
wet-eyed and all wound up
when we remember wembley
our very own world cup
did it really happen then
not all that long ago
did eleven Englishmen
valiantly show
how pleased they were to represent
our green and pleasant land
to spare no pains till all was spent
as mr ramsay planned
defend, attack! stonewall or storm!
do it as a team!
they had a duty to perform
and realise a dream
with patriotic spirit
devotion to the cause
no cliquey ***** to stir it
no dressing-rooms seesaws
what we got was blood and thunder
guys who’d graft through aching hurt
harassing classy teams asunder
sweating proudly for the shirt
a modest game-plan altogether
marked by honest grit
plugging at it hell for leather . . .
oh balls and bells and bugger it
we’ve left the owners high and dry
despairing of tomorrow
their days and nights tormented by
extremes of spleen and sorrow
they’re growing very nervous
suffer turns of stress
dear lord, they pray, preserve us
from merchants of excess
yes, we’re premier elite
accustomed to excel
yet suddenly we’re obsolete
we cannot choose but sell
see the electronic fashion
by which deals are done
the indecent, phoney passion
for fortunes lost and won
see those new metallic ways
sanctioned, don’t forget
by slick politicos who praise
the normality of debt
buy now, they cry, pay tomorrow
now’s the time to splash
u k bankers let you borrow
barrowloads of cash
you’re very welcome to their lolly
spend it anywhere
ten million, say, in napoli
twenty in auxerre
will get a fine young keeper
and a hitman capped for france
mind also they come cheaper
if you settle in advance
no chance of that! we’ve had enough
premier transactions
too many piggies at the trough
too many sick transactions
god knows how we’re still thriving!
maybe it’s true love
our football strong and striving
still rated far above
all the other superleagues
in europe and elsewhere
so why then do those upstart pigs
fill us with despair?
because we sense they are a breed
brash beyond belief
who’ll grind our premier with greed
into early grief
niggard creatures with no shame
selfish to the core
it isn’t they don’t love the game
but they love money more
the love of money, money
the filthy evil root
clings to life’s whole journey
if you let its lure pollute
honest reputations
built across the years
rosy expectations
of brilliant careers
aye, fans and family and friends
employers now and then
accept occasional weekends
when fit and flush young men
relax from all the pressures
of tough top-level jobs
and savour thirsty pleasures
among the yups and yobs
in city centre places
with a cocktail clientele
entry only when the faces
and the credits ring a bell . . .
excuse me, sir, but may i say
it’s all a bit too much
your fancy’s leading you astray
first you ditch the dutch
then you gabble on and on
preaching to excess
that greed’s the new criterion
for premier success
that achievements on the pitch
are not what now appeals
but spin-off profits, getting rich
doing sordid deals
traits which mark our current crop
of mediocrity
conducting their jules rimet flop
to themes of me! me! me!
a troupe of gifted wonders
england’s finest sons
committing schoolboy blunders
silly twists and turns
that mess their balance on the ball
and spoil the simplest pass
no zip! no zest! no poise at all!
a modicum of class
as sterile and as stale as
you could ever see
it took a thousand vuvuzelas
to soothe our misery
they were serially bland
on three ‘demanding’ dates
algeria, slovenia, and
the united states
who were winners of the group
while we sneaked second slot
which put us truly in the soup
against the german juggernaut
it’s them and us! like hot and cold!
we’re inert and coarse
but they are fervent, bright and bold
an overwhelming force
at first they can’t believe their luck
what ails the ancient foe!
this anglo bunch has gone amuck
and do not seem to know
they represent a nation
a proud, defiant race
famed for confrontation
always in-your-face
why then do they not behave
disdainful and defy?
why play as if they want to wave
south africa goodbye?
the hows and whys, the alibis
for four ghastly games
we’re fed a mash of truths and lies
and mentions of some names
players, coaches, men in suits
embroiled in mean distractions
rows and wrangles, rash disputes
petty-minded factions
ach! here, incidentally
are the sorry stats
the mangy, meagre tally
of our wealthy brats
first, the group games: we played three
won one, drew two
next, knocked out by germany
without too much ado
four matches altogether
scored three, conceded five
now the leading question’s whether
england’s honour can survive
our reputation’s now at stake
because the world of soccer
struggled hard to keep awake
and watch such mediocre
bumbly, fumbly mummy’s boys
outthought, outfought, outclassed
where oh where the john bull joys
of our doughty past!
where the robsons, kidds and waddles
the hoddles and the wrights
lads who frowned on fiddle-faddles
and relished bonny fights!
where fowler, shearer, sheringham
keegan, trevor francis
lads who didn’t give a damn
and never shirked the chances!
billions blink and rub their eyes
and sense things aren’t right
these cannot be the selfsame guys
they see on satellite
and yet they’ve got the very same
names and shapes and faces
premier stars who grace the game
in various global places
every single week, it seems
they’re on television
playing for superior teams
in our top division
occasionally subtle
creative now and then
but rarely in a muddle
since nine times out of ten
they’ve specialists to left and right
as well as close behind
insisting that their touch be light
and simple and refined
pass and run, pass and run
focus upon run and pass
enjoy it fully and have fun
or never make world class!
we also blinked a bit at first
there was a crisis here!
incredibly, the very worst
our heroes faint with fear
wary of the limelight glare
grouchy and uptight
wishing they were safe elsewhere
far from public sight
in a balmy place that pleases
on a golden beach
bookies, booze and bits and pieces
within easy reach
wishful thinking! here they are
panicky no doubt
desperate to disappear
before their secret’s out
you’re mystified? well, simplified
this is what it means
every leading premier side
falls short on english genes
home-bred bargains are so bleak
opportunities so lean
the native prodigies we seek
are born to blush unseen
elsewhere, though, things aren’t so
abroad the market’s humming
with talent agents on the go
engaging, welcoming
pricey bids for likely lads
quick and slick and spirited
negotiating big fat scads
of salaries unlimited
for earnest youth of many skills
and spunky as can be
groomed early in the principles
of football harmony
taught from childhood in good ways
of clicking as a team
delighting pundits with displays
on a united theme
coached in concentration
they focus without fuss
on total application
for ninety minutes plus
heart and soul in every ploy
selfless through and through
bringing elegance and joy
to all the things they do
notice, too, they don’t resort
to solo dances on the ball
togetherness is what they’ve got
all for one and one for all
no fits and starts, no huff and puff
no jealousies or piques
no big-headed, pompous stuff
no dishonest streaks
so there they are! celebrities
the premier’s star turns
exhibiting an expertise
that well and truly stuns
with its passwork and precision
tempo and panache
its vitality and vision
owing nothing to the cash
inducements and incentives
their big league boardroom offers
the glittering bonuses it gives
from overflowing coffers
wildcat bonuses, that is
something on the side
but let’s avoid analysis
as our boys wide-eyed
wonder if their ears erred
because it sounded odd
the pre-match pep talk they just heard
so free with perk and prod
sorry, lads, to intervene
says the mouthpiece from the board
i’ve upset your fixed routine
but certain things can’t be ignored
this cup-tie means an awful lot
a stern, demanding test
you’ve got to give it all you’ve got
and do your very best
that’s the message from upstairs
where members air high hopes
they also mention tax-free shares
in big brown envelopes
five-figure bounties from the banks
for your grit and drive
unstinting tokens of their thanks
provided we survive
well, best of british! work non-stop
try very hard to win
with these nice pledges from the top
you’ll be bursting to begin
so mind cooperation
no personal mishaps
keep your concentration
not a single lapse!
no, their ears do not err
it’s that same tiresome cry -
once the action starts out there
remember you must try
to beaver at your very best
bellicose and bold
play with zip and zing and zest
don’t blow hot and cold!
strive away and do your best
together as a team
try your very damnedest
keep alive our euro dream!
irksome talk! outrageous!
it fills them with unease
they work hard for their wages
and other fancy fees
hard and keen and intrepid
they give it all they’ve got
they always do! they always did
scrupulously taught
to play with passion, lots of flair
and hale and hearty joy
taught soccer is a love affair
besotting man and boy
(and woman also, more and more
as mentioned later on
but meantime we shall hold the door
and bid her to be gone)
so they resent the notion
the general conceit
that when you cross an ocean
to sign for an elite
affluenza is the spur
a vulgar lust for loot
a sordid need to prosper
before you smash a foot
or flying studs make smithereens
of your fearless head
all kinds of awful unforeseens
may strike a contract dead . . .
och, you’ve caught the bug again
the common fan’s disease
why do sane quite normal men
wallow in anxieties
go instantly ecstatic
and trill a rigmarole
just because some midfield prick
miskicks a simple goal
or, like you, they ballyhoo
events already cold
embroider them as fresh and new
though they’re a year old?
listen, this longwinded scene
you wish us to believe
it’s pish! eyewash! cheap and mean!
these guys are not naïve
(continuing)
Copyright ©
eleven7
... [
2012-09-09 16:43:43]
(Date/Time posted on
site)
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Re: Afterthoughts - Part 3
(User Rating: 1 )
by shelby on
Monday, 10th September 2012 @ 06:14:13 PM AEST
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I will have to find and read the rest of these. Nice flowing verse.
Michelle |
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