Football Poets

Sorry We’re Broke..We Got Stuck In The Sixties ( short 160-line haiku! )

¶ 1 Leave a comment on verse 1 0 (Where Have All The Players Gone?)

¶ 2 Leave a comment on verse 2 0 now they say if you recall the sixties
you probably weren’t even there
but i can still see it as clear as the day
all those flowers and dreams in your hair –
from the first of the CND marches
to football games muddy and free
from angry young beatniks in cafes
to those idols that thrilled you and me-
and i’m not getting loved up or fluffy
but i wonder what really went wrong
for yes it was mad and pathetically sad
but where have all the good players gone?

¶ 3 Leave a comment on verse 3 0 for when it took blaze like a sunflower
it exploded us into the new
we knew we were hooked like a frame on a wall
when the Beatles first sang ‘Love Me Do’
but i think of a time when their lives met with mine
it’s nostalgic but what can you do
do you winge on and on for a time that is gone
when a player earns just what you do –
they were innocent dream-like completely naieve
and so much in tune with the day
they would walk to the ground just to save half a crown
have a drink at the end of the day –
and training was one or two jogs round the pitch
and goalies were tubby and fat
you’d struggle to find just one head in the crowd
that was minus a chequered cloth cap –
Tom Finney ,young Greavesie and sweet Dennis Law
Stan Matthews George Bestie and all
Ray Pointer ,Nat Lofthouse and big Billy Wright
enraptured… to take home the ball –
its a long time – long time for the wrinklies
its a long time that’s come and has gone
its a long time through programmes all buried in dust
but only the memories live on –

¶ 4 Leave a comment on verse 4 0 and i bet they all ponder how different it is
and i bet it all seems kind of strange
when they pick up the papers or check on their texts
just how much their lives might have changed –
but i bet not a man left among them
could hold back a tear on the cheek
and they’d do it again just the way they did then
for the thrill and for ten pound a week-
those men with the partings all brylcreemed
and shorts that came down to their knees
they alway looked older at twenty
thank god for the nineteen-sixties –
when chin chimmeny- chin chimmmeny- chin- jimmy hill
gave freedom to limits on pay
and loosened the wages for those of the time
like Broadbent and Crerand and Haynes
but who would be brave enough now to invoke
a minimum wage once again
would we start off at ten- grand or fifty a week
like peanuts to modern day men –
but we stood through impossible weather
no cover in rain hail or snow
we got soaked we got squashed
and we sang when we lost
then off to our parties we’d go –
yeah we were the joke of the sixties
with players we used to adore
who gave daffodils out in the night clubs
but they don’t give ’em out any more –
we were well up for grabs to be mocked into shreds
we were something to giggle upon
but now that our game and our planet grows dark
where have all the good players gone?

¶ 5 Leave a comment on verse 5 0 but we learned about love in the sixties
we ran smiling through old London town
when young Bobby Moore was the pride of the land
i expect he got quite a few pounds-
but it wasn’t about just the money
for the money just wasn’t about
and it wasn’t about being bigger than Hendrix
for heroes who all went without –
and it’s easy for Lord Micheal Jagger
to say how he finds it a bore
when old blokes go on- about how it all was
when he’s no longer struggling or poor –
for we were the fuses before it went off
brought up on a war that was gone
but I still can’t believe – when I look at this world
where have all the good players gone?

¶ 6 Leave a comment on verse 6 0 but somewhere the sixties was blooming
we sangs songs that we heard on the box
like “if you’re all goin’ up to Norwich
be sure to wear farmers thick socks”
it was all so incredibly class-less
all working class people turned hip
it came out of the blue -and it changed me and you
just like grandad had taken a trip –
it imploded on into the stadiums-
those old grounds of concrete and soul
it imploded on into the sudden new dives
and discos all down the Kings Road-
it exploded on into the hairstyles-at Anfield the Beatles would blare
but down at the Bridge it was always the Stones
and the mods with their razor shorn hair-
those endless song-writers and crazy all nighters
those backwardly out-of-it scenes
when i tripped in the Roundhouse I thought i saw God
it was only some bubble machine –
we’d go skipping the bright streets of Chelsea
like peacocks along Fulham Road
we held love-ins and be-ins and tried to be free in
the strangest of pads and abodes –
we sat glued to the tele all through the World Cup
and we watched it in black and in white
you couldn’t get tickets for love nor money
and we partied long into the night-
and we lay there in heaps in our bed-sits
while records just went-round and around
we talked rubbish for hours and drew felt-pen flowers
and thought it was heaven we’d found –
and we droned on and on about karma
and how we would bunk into games
and how we would one day sit up in the stands
but we all felt it wasn’t the same-
we lost players who trainers just patched up too quick
and others just drank it away
and we knew that the future could never get worse
but we sure couldn’t picture today-
or picture a time without football and wine
much more than a poem or song
there were so many good players knocking around
does anyone know where they’ve gone?

¶ 7 Leave a comment on verse 7 0 we were always a send up of all we believed
who wrote slogans of peace on the wall
we banged drums like they still do in Golden Gate Park
but we felt we were part of it all –
so where’s it all gone can you tell me
was it merely a phase we’ve outgrown?
all swopped for the safety of ‘live-for-yourself’
and the most up-to-date ringing tone..
i’m in danger of losing your patience-i’m in danger of losing mine too
and before we all nip off to buy the new kit
there’s something i’d like you to do-
if you care about football and heroes
and realise something is wrong
can anyone out there please tell me
where have all the good players gone?

¶ 8 Leave a comment on verse 8 0 for they sold us a dream and they’re selling one now
with fashion and money for goals
and they take from the game but they never give back
they just rip-off the kids heart and soul
is the universe flat or expanding ?
is the maker contactable soon?
it was only a year in a million or so
but some of us still know the tune –
you can call us nostalgic and jealous
you can call us whatever it’s worth
but one thing i know…is wherever I go
im in love with this game and this earth –
and i wake ev’ry morning in wonder
and i look out away ‘cross that hill
and i think of the next generations
and i pray it will all be here still
you can call me a total old hippy
and they call me one my whole life long
but now that they’re threatening the heart of the game
where have all the good players gone?

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