|
 Menu
|
|
|
|
|
Social
|
|
|
|
|
Afterthoughts - Part 4
Contributed by
eleven7
on
Sunday, 9th September 2012 @ 04:45:36 PM in AEST
Topic:
oops
|
these newcomers from afar
who star in every game
they do not doubt how good they are
nor hang the heads in shame
when some daft bluffer from the board
urges harder graft
it’s not, they know, the foreign horde
that’s lacking heart and craft
no, nothing’s ever as it seems
they’ve hit upon a secret
all these tip-top english teams
are . . . shush, they daren’t speak it!
but who cares! the damage’s done
it’s not so shameful now
the show is over! spain have won
world champions and how!
by up and doing, being brave
a squad too proud to yield
ace pass-masters, wave on wave
pressing up the field
by thinking quickly, that’s the key
and movement off the ball
their party piece the half-touch spree
spellbinding one and all
well, that’s enough digression
leading folk astray
we fans have an obsession
with going our own way
no matter what the story
we jiggle it about
garnish it with glory
graft it with more clout
or if it’s really jinxed for joys
a sleepy sort of yarn
we introduce a cheeky noise
a rank, long-winded yawn
or . . . ach, enough of twists and turns
it’s time to stop all that
resist those grand poetic runs
apply a strict format
and start with recent, secret ploys
of premier conceit
which keep our bunch of home-made boys
reasonably sweet
each top team fields two or three
such celebrated chaps
who earn a whopping salary
as keystone england caps
automatic choices
adept at work and play
quick to raise their voices
at the state of pay
unzip, they say, the purse strings
reward your upper class
indulge us with more baksheesh things
more moneybags! more brass!
which we’re entitled to expect
since we’ve got valid claims
we now command widespread respect
we’re legendary names
once mere rookies, trainee brats
for many a hectic year
unlike those dais and macs and pats
who’d readily appear
dead set to steal our english jobs
despite our righteous whinge
young welsh and scotch and irish yobs
from the celtic fringe
listen! i must interrupt
tell us something new!
premier football’s been corrupt
since 1992
since the year of its birth
they’ve dabbled with the rules
chancers mocked with raucous mirth
and labelled greedy fools
for peddling wealth-creation
in unfussy ways
whetting speculation
of a lawless phase
when outfits buy and sell on tick
and debt’s a normal thing
and deals get done and dusted quick
as premier giants fling
big money at the internet
at dotcom or elsewhere . . .
lord bless my soul, i clean forget
we’re not to spout hot air!
i made a promise! so did you!
from now it’s strictly fact
no more sounding off askew
or hyping a crap act
an end to all meanderings
that grate on readers’ nerves
a ban on roundabouts and swings
and off-field body swerves
instead we stick to simple fact
free of ostentation
we need no longer interact
or fabricate sensation
just narrate the naked truth
to those who care to seek it
why were our heroes so uncouth
what’s the great, big secret?
why did team spirit sink so low
and tactics get unclear
each performance tired and slow
no fun but lots of fear
as the world, they knew, was watching
on a billion screens
and blinking and skull scratching
at their wobbly routines
and goggling viewers gazed aghast
it can’t, they gasped, be true
england’s finest quite outclassed
what a crappy crew!
who’d believe these hallowed guys
each a global name
would have us rub our heathen eyes
and bow our heads in shame
at such a scatty exhibition
of defensive roles
devoid of craft and all ambition
in the art of goals
gusty passes, gutless tackles
messy movement off the ball
schemers stiff as if in shackles
strikers hitting a brick wall
enough, you snap, it’s no big cheer
brooding on like this
some speedy action and severe
wouldn’t come amiss
we’re spineless, idiotic
to let those traitors win
but we must be patriotic
and raise a hellish din
destroy the prim delusion
the premier is ours
an english institution
enjoying special powers
dispensing economic bliss
both here and away
our caring men of business
at the sweet f.a.
busy in the backrooms
fixing deal on deal
no call for fancy puffs and plumes
just off-the-peg appeal
ready-made, well-cut concessions
investment tips and such
access to brave banking persons
but maybe not too much
lots of fresh temptation
a fat cat can enjoy
do you mind his admiration
for an amazing ploy
a real boon for the tycoon
as good as it could get
multiplying his fortune
yet inheriting no debt . . .
listen, i’ve no wish to fuss
but may i interrupt
some say such conduct’s generous
others say corrupt
these are mucky waters
football’s no-go zone
awash in sleazy matters
best left well alone
ach, here’s chaff to make you laugh
guess who owes a billion quid
but wants a billion and a half
for a successful bid!
i’ve got a cold, i belch and sneeze
though the season’s sunny blue
i jerk and judder in my knees
at the horrors i’ve been through
my eyes drip sore, my mouth’s agape
my mind has gone askew
i dribble verses to escape
the horrors i’ve been through
it’s easier to muffle
to stifle how one feels
speak words that barely ruffle
established imbeciles
it’s easier to snigger
blame those fools above
than to pull a trigger
and kill the team you love
much easier to offer
a diplomatic plea
what went wrong! it’s all a blur
don’t ask me
but some recall quite clearly
the sad reality
this world cup squad is merely
a mediocrity
betraying raw deficiencies
basic soccer flaws
which doom our finest lads to freeze
in their country’s cause
because they don’t control the ball
in a pressure situation
because their passing’s comical
with little inspiration
pell-mell efforts, error-ridden
pain our startled eyes
a patchiness well hidden
in premiership ties
by timeless young jetsetters
who relish extra work
and baby-sit their betters
when the latter opt to lurk
on the edge of battle
quite unheedingly
sorting tittle-tattle
for tonight’s tv
or browsing over earnings
from recent p r stunts
arousing youthful yearnings
modelling y-fronts
or hairline weaves . . . you grunt aghast
bristling very stern
fire and brimstone! damn and blast
i’m drivelling again!
again off-beam! another
babble spoils my plan
aye, i’m a true-born brother
of a universal clan
who can’t control wild urges
to sink as well as swim
whose honest soul indulges
football’s every whim!
whatever, in the premier
ball control and pass
are mere customary fare
to players of world class
whose craft conceals the frailties
of native english stock
revealing basic failings
leaving us in shock
at heroes cruelly exposed
when they come together
discontented, discomposed
no matter what the weather
they’re so shoddy and so slack
they moon unmanfully
were they ever taught the knack
of mind and body harmony
by means of practising each day
improving concentration
achieving bits of perfect play
exceeding expectation?
well, learning then was less aloof
with endless competitions
raw kids developed on the hoof
in needle-match conditions
besides, big daddies wise and sage
declared all league groups must
field lads of roughly the same age
a rule both fair and just
except . . . they clean forget the dutch
(as we’ve done once or twice)
who said our chiefs were out of touch
and needed good advice
the dutch proposed the notion
that kids who knew success
in league and cup promotion
used physical excess
all blood-and-guts and do-or-die
competitive no doubt
to catch perhaps the seasoned eye
of a passing scout
whose fleeting glance will promptly spot
an unlikely pro
nice, fancy footwork swanked a lot
but savvy not on show
astute at reading situations?
shrewd with either foot?
no, they shoot on pass occasions
and pass when they should shoot!
can a matchplay situation
patch and polish careless style
raise mental toughness, concentration
marking and attacking guile?
no, we’re stale, beyond repair
we’re needing something new
a coaching scheme that’s fresh and fair
so here’s what we’ll do . . .
they introduce academies
where likely lads will cram
and the most acclaimed of these
ajax of amsterdam
affords a brave example
of fundamental change
their grievances so ample
they find it very strange
that people of all sorts and kinds
should nitpick at their plans
it’s hard to please the drifting minds
of dizzy football fans
many of whom sigh and sneer
at such wild expense
but ajax wish to persevere
hell-bent on excellence
and despite derisive devils
who caution spending sprees
get attention at two levels
from coaching prodigies
who scent a soccer heaven
a super-duper scene
so groups aged five to eleven
and eleven to sixteen
will soon get quality coaches
on hefty salaries
who’ll teach them fresh approaches
total football expertise
a phrase that hatched a saying
technique, technique, technique
tricks not learned from playing
matches week by week
now we call it 4-3-3
a mix of style and sauce
michels and cryff’s philosophy
show the ball who’s boss
show them brilliant control
and nimble shifts of pace
essential to the subtle role
of improvising space . . .
ach, you say, four at the back
three about mid-field
another trio in attack
what clout those coaches wield
dismantling all the old routines
discarding frazzled drills
off-loading pedants, philistines
phasing in new principles!
such sarcasm! so sharp and keen!
but you’ve no cause to scoff
fans know these numbers mostly mean
the line-up at kick-off
the coaches bind young minds to see
football’s changing face
a pitch is common property
not private bits of space
from the start they task each group
with challenge situations
ambitious fellows, cock-a-hoop
hooked on innovations
each group, they check, is truly blest
born with knack and flair
their progress too prompts interest
in how they dress and set their hair
and if they really primp and preen
and sometimes sniff and swill
revel in the social scene
wallow in the teeny whirl
the tingling disco dancing
and the adulation
the dalliance, romancing
the serial flirtation?
the coaches say: it’s up to them
they’re whiz kids fancy free
we welcome rather than condemn
relaxation therapy
they get sympathy, attention
as well as sheepish giggles
when they mention daily tension
tetchy training niggles
yes, it’s good that they connect
off the training ground
and pay each other due respect
and maybe buy a round
as they chatter on the reasons
for the standards to be met
wondering if these rookie seasons
will be matters of regret
or maybe our newfangled ways
rehearsed so many years
will stoke their fires and set ablaze
sensational careers!
they do stints on rising, falling
refine their heading with more force
they do sessions on stonewalling
a siegecraft sort of course
moves that they must master
because one never knows
in football things go faster
than normal folk suppose
defence in depth is what they do
the top-flight euro sides
pundits dub it 4-4-2
forgetful of the tides
the relentless ebb and flow
retreat, resist, revive
from deep defence upfield they go
switch to 2-3-5
all-purpose boys and flexible
with ready head and feet
whether going for the kill
or keeping a clean sheet
they work away at each new touch
each deft effective move
they love involvement very much
feel themselves improve
they have a ball and keep it clean
don’t spit in people’s faces
they’re also fussy on hygiene
avoid on-field embraces
an attractive, fluent style
is what they’ll soon convey
football with a happy smile
in a futuristic way
a pilot scheme of quality
with a combination
of individuality
and trim cooperation
a wonderful experiment
ideas fresh and rich
engendering excitement
on and off the pitch
a joyful exhibition
elegance refined
no slipshod intuition
no need to graft and grind
since they make it look so . . . hey,
must you snort like that?
you shake your head as if to say
what a stupid prat!
well, you are! a while ago
you swore to stick to fact
yet now atwitter and aglow
your story’s inexact
those guys you praise so readily
aren’t they trainees?
is it wise or just plain silly
going into ecstasies
about enchanted coaches
and their wondrous boys
pursuing fresh approaches
with new-fangled ploys
while the killjoys snigger
they’ve seen it all before
and the ballyhoo spins bigger
till it’s heard no more . . .
who’s stupid now! now who spouts
a load of utter tripe?
we fans at time get loony bouts
and babble true to type
indeed we do but dicks like you
are thick beyond repair
your brains are balls kicked black and blue
leaking toxic air
pay attention! as things go
the plan proves brave and keen
and so the winds of change soon blow
across the euro scene
no, not so very soon in fact
it takes hectic years
of handling issues needing tact -
tensions, tantrums, tears
and teething troubles all the time
rejecting old for new
telling stalwarts in their prime
bye-bye for now . . . be seeing you!
however slick the presentations
prickly hassles tick backstage
however happy the vibrations
scabs finds cause to rage
aye, we could fill whole pages
listing hitches on the way
like squabbles about wages
keeping guttersnipes at bay
and – ach, it’s getting boring
imagine this instead
a jampacked crowd is roaring
as floodlights overhead
illuminate a derby clash
between two giant sides
played as always with panache
and bloodiness and pride
wait a minute! something’s wrong
this match is most bizarre
the tempo’s fast, the fight’s dingdong
but not a bit like war
and no announcement! nothing’s said
another odd surprise
all the loudspeakers are dead
as fans rub popping eyes
and gawk and goggle at two teams
whose football isn’t normal
everything they do, it seems
is wondrously informal
they play with steely elegance
they’re always seeking spaces
they can duff and they can dance
in rough and silky places
see that stopper centre-back
built like a concrete thing
well, now he’s frisking in attack
skipping up the wing
he stops! has he lost control
or maybe confidence?
no, he loops a lovely goal
past a massed defence
see that classy, pint-sized guy
ghosting here and there
his passes flow in sweet supply
his touch is tinged with flair
would you believe that by and by
within a few short years
this little guy, no longer shy
has keepers shedding tears
no longer just a stylish twit
a creative fox
this man can give and take a hit
a tiger in the box . . .
your eyebrows come together
you’re counting one to ten
you reckon i’m a blether
i’m bluffing once again
well, bollocks! don’t you worry
i’ll neither blah nor yak
i’m in an awful hurry
no time for bric-a-brac
no more time for idle glitter
freshening the facts
spreading tabloid litter
splashing fleshy acts
total football’s where i’m at
the dutch revised edition
a rich attractive format
designed by men of vision
and no, i do not overdo
all this orange crap
in fact the time is overdue
to point you at a map
at a horizontal place
across the cold north sea
neighbours, yes, but you would face
choppy trips by air or sea
should you ever opt to visit
that wet and windy shore
because you’re eager to elicit
what makes a minnow roar
sorry! they were never minnows
never easy prey
but proud and sassy fellows
in a beatnik way
so, early in the seventies
there’s a bit of fuss
no ifs or buts! the whole world sees
the dutch are serious
the first four years of this decade
sees those presumptuous pups
come home to victory parades
with four euro cups!
beyond belief but it is so!
feyenoord win the first
then ajax notch three in a row
when even juve’s crushed
by teamwork that’s tenacious
continuous zip and zing
vigorous, vivacious
the total football thing!
ach, that last verse’s ineptly sprung
sneaking in unseen
world cup finals left unsung
as if they’d never been!
first, holland v west germany
munich, seventy-four
the home team edged to victory
two - one the full-time score
another place, another time
buenos aires, seventy-eight
a game aggressive and sublime
as the gauchos leave it late
and sweat an extra half an hour
before they can prevail
3-1 the score! a shift of power
on fifa’s ratings scale
from the glamorous brazil
(the only five-time winners)
to a team of thrill and spill
who feel they’re but beginners
bit-part players in a story
a zonking soccer thriller
entrancing stuff! more world cup glory
thanks to a substance swiller
all his skills and tricks are there
(mexico city, eighty-six)
west germans struggle and despair
at diego’s latest fix
his repertoire’s beyond compare
they’re led a merry dance
yes, they draw level, to be fair
but fail to spoil romance
with minutes left they’re all askew
as he wriggles from midfield
a pass! a goal! they lose 3-2
destiny! their fate is sealed
and maradona can fulfil
his own due destiny
before he bellyflops downhill
on a junkie spree
but now as captain he’ll collect
football’s greatest prize
and tango it as fans expect
and kiss it to the skies
do you mind his wondrous wriggle
in the previous round
how we raised a worldwide niggle
when the cokehead found
shilton’s net with a shifty hand
neither ref nor linesman saw
how we howled and yowled for england
our resentment running raw
at such a gross injustice
vile curses on his soul!
well, that’s when millions of us miss
the greatest ever goal!
imagine! he receives the ball
on his magic foot
with speed and poise phenomenal
assurance absolute
from his own half he goes
his left peg in control
leaves five defenders comatose
wrongfoots the guy in goal
our quarter final tie is lost!
they win the match 2-1
our side is maradona tossed
subdued by superman!
listen, you’re again off-beam
skewing out of touch
heedless of your chosen theme
the football of the dutch
you always seem to manage it
the art of the erratic
trotting out some fancy bit
then getting all ecstatic
about this vital influence
on the state of play
it’s dicks like you with little sense
who lead good fans astray
it’s you who’s thick! it’s just a trick
we english are spoonfed
our media masters choose to pick
what can or can’t be said
the tales i’ve just been telling
exemplify their creed
bad news is just for selling
it’s what we like to read
aren’t most of us in fact
avid for such stuff?
naughty articles attract
we never get enough!
and they’re cobbled rough and tender
teasing to each taste
see, for instance, yon defender
famously unchaste
fast and loose but . . . what’s the matter
what have i said now?
you yawn and mutter at my patter
furrows scar your brow
this is not a time to yawn
there’s lots of things to do
our football’s rotting, weak and worn
overhaul is overdue
we must rebuild it strong and tall
buoyant once again
it’s england’s football after all
the legacy of englishmen
yes, once upon a loyal time
when mammon wasn’t king
our noble anthem sang sublime
through stand and terracing
its heartfelt and united roar
inspired the nation’s best
and ninety minutes’ sweat would pour
from the lions on each breast
but now a verse or two will do
as both teams stand in line
perhaps a band, a singer too
and chorus girls divine
then handshakes from the VIPs
a duke and a duchess
who put the players at their ease
and wish them all success
he’s charming and she’s beautiful
neither shallow nor severe
but diligent and dutiful
instilling ample cheer
not only in our wembley team
but also in the guests
a most effective p r scheme
in premier interests
we claim our game’s respectable
beloved of every class
it’s socially acceptable
compared to certain crass
and sniffy sports pursuits
fussy and rule-ridden
that no more lure the moneyed suits
than does a fetid midden
you jibe and jabber! what’s your point?
and should we give a damn?
your words are jangling out of joint
your rhythms jar and jam
and why this silly, sudden switch
from maradona and the dutch?
did you judge it best to ditch
the bits that bore us overmuch?
you’re being rude! you rarely listen
to everything i say
you’re happy only when i ***** on
how our media convey –
hey, that’s enough! and will you please
put down that twitchy pen
we’ve got no wish for a reprise
of all that guff again
all that creative writing
in our daily press
radio rabbles fighting
and babbling to excess
tv panels stacked with guys
who flourished yesterday
so sharp and wise you don’t realise
they’ve nothing new to say
which doesn’t matter since they’re bold
well versed in yackety-yack
play each session as they’re told
and rarely get the sack
ach, dammit, i meander
forgetful of my plan
i’m fickle and i wander
like any normal fan
yes, here it is! i mind it now
i need to compromise
i’ve got to sort this mess somehow
so i’ll apologise
for all my deviations
all my wonky shifts
my selfish inclinations
and accidental drifts
aye, we’ll do a double deal
no more guff from me
if i can run my royal spiel
and interrupted eulogy
two eulogies, to be exact
diego and the dutch
two soccer miracles in fact
not often seen as such
but first i’ll finish what i said
about our fa’s role
their sphere of influence widespread
east to west and pole to pole
they orchestrate a global show
the like there’s never been
and not one trick they do not know
to bring new millions in
for instance, they have access
to glossy royal swells
whose very presence seals success
because it sells and sells
premier clubs with cashflow cares
for scads of foreign money
to fat cat multi-millionaires
from lands of milk and honey
like russia and india
each with aspirations
believing it’s a good idea
to join a league of nations
the premier has twenty teams
and five of these today
belong to foreigners with dreams
who’ve come a long, long way
to indulge romantic notions
with spendaholic glee
perhaps enjoy sublime emotions
like cup-final ecstasy
imagine! you’re so nervous, trembly
ignorant, unorthodox
should your team win through to wembley
you’ll be ushered to a box
a royal box! the ultimate!
so celebrate non-stop
win or lose, a wondrous fate
you’ve made it to the top!
which is where the tv masses
glimpse you on a balcony
smirking nicely, clinking glasses
with a king and queen-to-be
the premier has twenty teams
and five of these today
belong to guys who don’t chase dreams
and come from the USA
faceless fellows, ever wary
of the public eye
not complying with the carefree
image of a yankee guy
no, they aren’t buddy-buddy
socially they’re scarcely known
neither are they fuddy-duddy
theirs is a private zone
wily in the ways of money
wise to every wangle
whether it’s an offshore journey
or a bonus tangle
they fix a cold and cyber eye
on electronic deals
alert to patter sweet and sly
from flattering imbeciles
once a week across they come
and sit among the brothers
watch the match and haw and hum
while fifty thousand others
howl and yowl, success obsessed
possessed by a blissful theme
yes, we’re the pick, the very best
the premier’s dream team!
chants and songs and war cries
bellow from each fan
rejoicing at such splendid buys
by their aspiring man
who’s nice and kind and filthy rich
and signs a super side
whose source of wealth is something which
is never specified
something which is often said
of many wealthy men
far-fetched, no doubt! they forge ahead
and now they’re owning ten
of our top twenty league teams
with players of world class
the sweet f a’s great global dreams
have really come to pass
and it’s farewell to old saint george
his fabled cross and banner
to play this league we must disgorge
the fusty english manner
which certainly we cannot do
for we’re lagging miles behind
because our coaching end in view
puts body over mind
behind the times! outmoded drills!
old-school frills gone obsolete!
where now the groovy new-look skills
those fluid moves so sweet?
we’ll soon hark back to that same theme
but meanwhile chew on this
our apparatchiks frame a scheme
of fortune, fire and fizz
and nothing like it in the world
a league of sheer class
in ninety-two it was unfurled
to an astonished mass
of football fiends everywhere
from china to peru
who one fine day became aware
of something rare and new
the english premier, it was styled
spiced with special features
five-star in excellence, the child
of brainy, backroom creatures
no need to list particulars
of its many leaps and bounds
though the flow of foreign superstars
still startles and confounds
spurious feedbacks night and day
creative facts and figures
furtive dealings and foul play
scoops for dirty diggers
there’s a *****ty, rotten smell
of dishonesty and greed
folk in power know fine well
why nationwide we need
to curb the rich excesses
of our leading clubs
those regular successes
in local/global pubs
mornings, nights and afternoons
our topmost outfits thrive
amassing weekly fortunes
on telly channels live
and isn’t it our sweet f a
that implements the scheme
helping clubs with debts to pay
to swim against the stream
and isn’t it our supersides
huge box-office hits
who have the talent that provides
those last gasp benefits!
there’s at least a hundred losers
in our subdivisions
and since beggars can’t be choosers
they bless all rescue missions
they struggle with the rising costs
wages, rents and taxes
as unrelenting debt exhausts
and nothing much relaxes
their frantic quest for wherewithal
to fund half decent squads
they sigh for santa claus to call
or some daft fan with wads
of splendid lottery winnings
from saturday’s big draw
they tend to such imaginings
but now they gawk in awe
at this official little cheque
no phoney, god forbid
it’s from the f a’s chief exec
for a million quid
how it’s spent is up to them -
perhaps in desperation
some will splash it out to stem
the threat of relegation
while some who strive to rise and rise
and pocket millions more
will look to sign well-seasoned guys
who already know the score
yes, their goals will win promotion
to the top division
but they’ll scoff at any notion
of personal ambition
in the premier, they’ll say
strikers aren’t normal
we could never play that way
so skittishly informal
so fast and fierce and prickly
mean-minded mavericks
who come alive too quickly
with sudden shifts and snicks
who streak through crack defenders
leaving tacklers in despair
while panicky goaltenders
clutch at empty air
ach, damn and blast, i’m way adrift
i wobble once again
why would it want to yaw and shift
my bolshie biro pen
or is it that it gets upset
for a proper reason
our national game is under threat
from a plague of treason?
listen, here’s the brutal truth
it’s due to fat cat stealth
unchecked, unscrupulous, uncouth
in pursuit of wealth
on fire to make more fortune
rake in more lolly, lots and lots
the premier’s so opportune
for our new patriots!
and soon those swooping buyers
their management and squads
defensive maestros, forward fliers
are scooping scads and scads
with celebrated set-ups
eternal clubs at hallowed grounds
always chasing leagues and cups
and reaching final rounds
now chelsea and the arsenal
man city and united too
employ good multi-national
managers and players who
spend each season chasing
a european slot
a top four premier placing
puts mints of money in the pot
earlier, mind, you heard me curse
the foreign owner ratio
well, other data’s even worse
in our big league portfolio
actually it’s ten - ten
the latest owner score
but english v non-englishmen
is tempting more and more
opportunist punters
bulls and bears and stags
fame and fortune hunters
waving offshore flags
to buy a business unique
where they will make a kill
and pocket millions week by week
and never pay a bill!
some say f a finances
run on duff accounts
in freakish circumstances
with fabulous miscounts
but don’t expect me to explain
the scams some folk assert
which may be subtle or insane
whatever, i regret
i’m in a binding hurry
and haven’t got the time
to weep and wail and worry
our game is mired in crime
i’m asking a few questions
actually two
and hoping for suggestions
from clever folk like you
(no doubt the wise guys will advise
on what i ought to do
for instance, anal exercise
with my sheets of ballyhoo
smutty stuff! but then why not
don’t i exploit their roles
football’s most devoted lot
loyal lifelong souls!)
i’m getting morbid, damn it all!
i ramble yet again
it’s a condition medical
and manifest in men
who need to sober up a bit
and lead a proper life
change their habits and commit
to normal trouble and strife
here’s my two-ply question, then!
how many premier squads
are managed by pure englishmen
and how many by nomads?
you eye me with suspicion
and query nervously
if there’s ever been division
on the issue previously
no, not really! not to date
our f a’s none too keen
they discourage such debate
on the media machine
they do not welcome any fuss
the stats will tell you why
frankly, these are scandalous
and clearly testify
to premier indifference
deliberate, in fact
when leading clubs spare no expense
spending fortunes to attract
great go-getters from abroad
proven leaders from elsewhere
while they affect they can’t afford
to bid for local flair
yet we’ve got talent heaven-sent
down through the divisions
steady lads of natural bent
ignored for top positions
no, in the premier process
their way of doing things
cv’s of sterling englishness
won’t pull any strings
here’s a managerial list
recently compiled
by a tabloid analyst
who’s joyfully profiled
each and every single one
of our league elite
recounting how it all began
and what they like to eat
let’s check his list of twenty
early on in may
there’s nationhoods in plenty
five home-grown, fifteen away:
five maestros from the eurozone
whose savvy rarely fails
high fliers once and now high-flown
plus a single soul from wales
then three staunch lads of irish strain
and five english patriots
which leaves a scandal to explain
who so many scots!
are we all inferior
to six marauding picts
who likely smirk superior
as the article predicts
the busby, fergie, shankly
tradition of success
is an eternal legacy
of trophies to excess!
he also touches on a matter
that bedevils many fans
sure, officials puff and prattle
but are there any plans
to tackle arrant negligence
imprudently contrived
to discontinue the pretence
our bankrupt league survived
because faceless backroom bodies
f a personnel
became financial prodigies
pledged to buy and sell
a premier beyond compare
a football ecstasy
pursue each multi-millionaire
each foreign prodigy
create a league much envied
on a global scale
our management at long last freed
of countless laws gone stale
of rules and regulations
bureaucratic sway
officious irritations
the ways of yesterday . . .
hooray to that! long overdue!
but why mention it again?
we know all this as well as you
it’s not exclusive gen!
of course it’s not, smart alick
but i’m not simply bleating
nor am i fagged by rhyme fatigue -
some things are worth repeating
reminding us the f a vision
a communal goal
became a money-grubbing mission
rich in goods and poor in soul
which quickly overwhelmed them
and all the plans they’d made
their caring/sharing stratagem
immediately mislaid
then as profits multiplied
on and off the pitch
our redeemers softly sighed
and watched their scheme enrich
all sorts of football chancers
gorging at the feast:
well, we hadn’t all the answers
but at the very least
we created wealth and work
revived a tired old game
dispelled the apparatchik murk
relit a fitful flame
admittedly, we too got caught
in the mammon whirl
we too went spooning in the pot
on the principle
that if you draft a system
which does wondrous well
you’re being either daft or dim
if you don’t compel
an instant and official pledge
to bonanza rank
especially with your knowledge
of every dodgy bank
yes, we were wise and steady
saw the way ahead
the master plan was ready
its writ would be widespread
besides, the funding proved amazing
enough for rocket bills
quite soon we’d be erasing
a trail of soccer ills
we’d organise things better
end discord and disorder
soothe auditor and debtor
root out the odd marauder
we would be innovative
daring, go-ahead
lively and creative
determined, as i said
to advertise the sex appeal
the beauty of our game
its elegant apache steel
its sweet and scalding flame
with jack and jill approaches
in ambitious schools
with able foreign coaches
spelling out the rules
wow, what a novel notion!
equal football rights!
imagine the commotion
picture the delights . . .
you imbecile, it doesn’t mean
each team picks them and us
if it ever did, our premier scene
would . . . ach, it’s ludicrous
they only meant to splash some cash
on needy women’s soccer
a gesture very bold and brash
indeed, a real shocker
because who want to go and watch
a bunch of sweaty lasses
chase a football on a patch
of weedy council grasses!
hey, not at all! i can’t agree!
you know, when i got home
from my african safari
no more, i swore, to roam
i’d mope and prowl around the house
annoying everyone
and bellyache and gripe and grouse
a disillusioned man
until this day when home alone
feeling wimpish and forlorn
i went to switch on wimbledon
with the curtains drawn
but i have to channel hop
may the lord be praised
i press a button, then i stop
very much amazed
i’ve got a world cup final here
home-spun by my thumb
a stupendous atmosphere
in a german stadium
a classic! a terrific match!
the united states against japan
a video all fans should watch
as often as they can
two dream teams that both deserve
more credit than they’ve got
skill and speed, vim and verve
they never skived but fought
for every fifty-fifty ball
for every bit of space
they didn’t cheat or spit or brawl
or dive in a crowded place
they played with bite and beauty
blending dash and guile
they felt a bounden duty
to go that extra mile
for their loyal sisters
and their country’s glory
no, it isn’t solely misters
who write our soccer story
this chapter ended 3-2
for the women of japan
it captures what is very true
football’s good for everyone!
(continuing)
Copyright ©
eleven7
... [
2012-09-09 16:45:36]
(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.
|
|
|
|
· 
Poetry
Community
Members
Areas
Reference
Search
Top
Others
