Poems tagged ‘Chelsea’


Hey Potch!

Howdy pardner….
Come and join us, for a scotch
as we review the season:
there is no reason
for us to be happy
so we’ll make this snappy….

we failed to notch
any home runs
we did not win
the World Series

and based on those observations
and without further queries

You, Poch
we no longer consider topnotch
and you, Poch
contrived to botch
our Master Plan
and so you’ll not continue with us
not on our watch

so we say goodbye
and we’ll find someone else to satisfy
our quest
to be the best
and to attain the prized crown
with a winning Touchdown!

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Terry Venable – The Rock The Fuse RIP

on heady days stood in the Shed
for six sweet years you were
imperious and smiling
as we tore out our hair
when I was young on Saturdays
I’d be there win our lose
and you stood firm composed and sure
in our old Sixties Blues

you played five hundred times for us
and wore the shirt with pride
with your mate Greavesie there up front
in that old Chelsea side
with Jim on fire we’d bang them in
but always seemed to be
completely un-predictable
and often all at sea

but outside that old office
all covered in ivy
inside my book of autographs
you signed your name for me
and long before the El Tel days
you were the rock the fuse
and you stood firm composed and sure
in our old Sixties Blues

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Sporting Benefits

It’s easy to mock,
marvellous to laugh and sing,
Hooray, Everton
are right back in the mire again.

May be Jordan Pickford
should play for the Blades,
A better sanction
than ten points taken away.

Or share them out
with the newly promoted three.
Make Everton pay for football’s
high crime of dodgy accountancy.

Now get the Popcorn out,
ready for the real laugh out loud,
the one that will send
a big fish to National League South.

Medals, pots, and pans will be thrown
in the bottomless dustbin of history,
and financial misdemeanours
will no longer bank roll shiny cup glory.

Or Everton remain the one answer
to the football quiz question set to persist,
while the elite get a measly fine,
a stern warning, and a slap across the wrist.

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We’re selling young Bob to Chelsea
A deal has been proposed
But when the media ask, how much he cost
We’ll say it’s Undisclosed.

We won’t mention the carried injury
Our team doctor diagnosed
And if the taxman asks-how we got paid
We’ll say it’s Undisclosed.

When the fans inquire how much we got
We’ll just say that no one knows
And if they keep on asking for the price
We’ll say it’s Undisclosed.

At least young Bob’s not bothered
He’s calm and well composed
But when he asks how much we think he’s worth
We’ll say it’s Undisclosed.

We’ll bring him up to Stamford Bridge
Where for pictures he’ll be posed
And when Sky TV – beg to know the fee
We’ll say it’s Undisclosed.

He’ll sign an eight year contract
With FFP loopholes well imposed
And when Bob asks is he coming back on loan
We’ll say it’s Undisclosed.

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Forza Vialli ~ Gianluca Vialli RIP

The blue Azzurri fire that burned
when I first saw you on my screen
one Nineties Sunday Channel 4
Sampdoria your long time home

the passion in your play that shone
as bright as bright for all to see
that you would bring in bucketloads
to Stamford Bridge in mighty games
to drive us on the pitch and line
to triumph oh so many times

the 40 goals you scored for Chels
the smile the cheek the things you’d say
the fever of that epic tie
v Liverpool when you took hold
to somehow turn it all around
when as you said “the fish were down!”

so many moments down the years
that thrilled us all but now the tears
for one who left us far too young
but gave their all in ev’ry game

and I’m distraught and not alone
remembering so many times
The blue Azzurri fire that burned
when I first saw you on my screen
one Nineties Sunday… Channel 4

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Chelsea’s Russian revolution

Chelsea’s Russian revolution

The Roman holiday is over
Abramovich hands the keys
Of Oligarchy and wealthy
Properties over to the warm
Charitable trusts, the
Trustworthy hands of
Loving benevolence where
Now hangs the dark cloak
Of dictatorship. Rules with
A rod of iron, Putin
Choking the life force
From Russia without love
But Chelsea now deserted
By the silent one, who hides
In the background we can still hear
The nasty orchestras of war
Discord in the air and menacing
Undercurrents of sharp divisions
Over Stamford Bridge
Where once Premier League
Back to back titles were displayed
When the echoes of arrogance
Of the Mourinho regime
Sneered and snarled over
The Bridge and then later
At the incomparable Real Madrid
So it is that Abramovich retreats
To his voiceless bunker
Not quite a sinister force
For he still believes in the Chelsea
Of old and new, trusting in his
Instincts as chairmen and owners do
But now the Russian bear will no longer
Be the growling, grizzly bear
Who sits on high at the Bridge
Pouring money and largesse
On this upwardly mobile, fashion
Conscious West London force
Chelsea bathing in their pool of their
Untouchable excellence but
Gone now are the days of
Bulldozers and bankruptcy
Scrimping and saving for all their worth
Now Chelsea boast millions at the court
Of Abramovich and yet he’s gone
But still there in spirit
Slapping backs from
The parallel universe of his world
Smiling with hirsute beard at his Chelsea
Blue is the colour
Mason Mount, Rudiger, Lukaku,
Hudson Odoi all on the crest of
A wave but carefully protected
From chaos and turbulence
Where Ray Wilkins once strutted
The fandango, a bossa nova or two
Chelsea now in grave danger
Of losing sight of where they were
Destabilised for a while but not
Quite because when Roman
Takes that holiday on stunning
Yachts that float immaculately
But yet they continue to cheer
From prosperous highs
The Shed in peerless accord
And yet yesterday was a punch
In the ribs, a harsh reawakening
Of the truth, oil reserves
Are not the answer for any of us
Waters dirtied, but tidal wave
Steady and clear. Ambition still there
Now. Who knows what the future
May hold for the good citizens of
West London toasting the past and
Present. Still pretty chipper but
No longer in Manchester City’s
Binoculars, just panting and puffing in their
Slipstream, a team left behind by
The leading lights of the day
For Chelsea, the Champions League
Could still be their salvation
Their medicinal antidote
The perfect pick me up,
A shot of something uplifting
While Ukraine fights for its life
On battlegrounds they never thought
They’d know. And Roman takes a
Holiday while Chelsea bask in the glow
They will, they hope, they will conquer
Those below
Blue is the colour
And Chelsea is definitely our name

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Football grounds

There was a time at White Hart Lane
When those who thought they’d endured enough pain
But then came the Double
Which quelled the trouble
Back in yesterday’s when
They gathered in force again

Rival in survival
With North London foes
Then stepped on toes
Of Arsenal across the road
That less than amiable abode
Then Highbury yearned for
Trophies and titles galore
Without resorting to the goal-less bore

Marbled halls and historic  clocks,
Perfectly suited to stylish socks
Mud caked boots
And elegant suits Gooners once and all
Classic exponents with medicine ball
Then Wenger stood Imperious and tall
At Stamford Bridge where Chelsea remain perched
On the ridge of more
Cups and trophies not another set of selfies
But you remember the sand and mud
Of yesteryear’s thud and crunch
That motley bunch
Chopper Harris, Cooke, Wilkins
Osgood and Hutchinson
In charge of their manor
When the mood of the banner
Was Blue is the colour
We once again discover
Chelsea remain the same name
Never plain just vigorous glorious, aflame

So finally West Ham never a sham
Upton Park, a cathedral of good
Across the babbling brook next to the wood
Down country lanes Where hope never wanes
Upton Park, that East End Fringe theatre
Where everything seemed  much better
When the Chicken Run was so much fun
And we were taught
The rudiments of football’s
Innocent age the game became
Beige but then changed
Upton Park would never become
Dark, for the lights
Shone on claret and blue,
Teasing, then the bubbles flew
Among soaring rooftops
Over commerce and shops
Where the East End display
Their splendid array
From football’s tastiest menu
And then when we all said see you
In 2016 when the old
Had broken the mould
What taste, what a waste
The old ground we seemed to leave
With too much haste
Our soul may have hankered. For yet another tankard

But Upton Park
Simply said, never
In a million years
When the Boleyn was
In tears of joy and elation
Near East Ham Station

So London’s grounds
Across hills and mounds
Where you can still hear
The distant sounds  of shuffling men,
Who from the old Den
From the daily grind
Never a bind
Loyal to the cause,
Grounds where Eagles
Once we treasured
Rapturous applause
Without pause

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That Photo of Jimmy Greaves

It captures him to a T. Look: eyes locked on the ball,
His face a mask of grim determination, he’s
Opening up like a cheetah chasing a springbok,
Showing the defender a clean pair of heels,
Who, lunging in, shows a studded sole in return.
It will gash his shin and need fourteen stitches.
It’s England v France at Wembley in July 1966.
They’re hosting the eighth World Cup competition.

Geoff Hurst will take his place and grab his chance.
Alf Ramsey will decide not to change a winning team.
He will score a hat-trick in the final versus West Germany,
Become an English hero and a knight of the realm in 1998.
Jimmy will finally collect an MBE in 2021.
What a player he was! We were watching Match of The Day
On the BBC. It must have been in the late 60s,
Because the picture was still fuzzy black-and-white.

Spurs had a free kick just outside the penalty area.
And twenty-one wild emotions were facing off
Over the defensive wall. “Come on, ref! Spurs players
Are muscling in!” “Their wall isn’t ten yards away!”
Only one man heard the referee’s whistle in the melee.
He stepped up with cerebral serenity from a short run
And placed the ball in the corner of the net,
While the goalkeeper was still shouting the odds.

It was his intellect that set Jimmy Greaves apart.
But in the seventies his decline began.
He started to drink. And the more he drank
The lower he sank. Was a snowball of regret,
Resentment and self-doubt rolling around and
Growing in his mind? Did he wonder why Fate
Stole his chance to be England’s World Cup hero?
Would they even have won with him in the team?

Were the snow clouds already louring as he sat out the final,
Suited in the July heat? Was his face ashen at the end amid
The ecstasy on the bench at the horror of his extinct dream
As the eleven men in red and white achieved immortality?
There was Nobby Stiles’s jig and Bobby Charlton’s tears.
Bobby Moore, chaired by the team, raising the Jules Rimet trophy
In his right hand. While the other squad members would only make
It into the footnotes of football history and the odd pub quiz.

Ten years later I would stand on the terrace at Fulham F.C. for a
Testimonial match. On the team sheet were many players well
Past their prime. One of them was Jimmy Greaves. His hair was
Thinner but longer. He had a droopy moustache and sunken eyes.
But neither time nor alcohol had ravaged that great football brain.
With one touch he scored the greatest goal I have ever seen.
As of old he turned and ran back up the field for the restart.
There may have been a brief smile and a wave. But that was it.

He beat the booze and found fame as the funny half of
Saint and Greavesie On TV. Always deadly serious on the pitch,
His on-screen barrow boy, cheeky chappie charm served him well.
Until football moved up-market. But as much as I enjoyed it,
It still grated on me. His erstwhile skill merited better tokens than
One-liners and a Spitting Image puppet Saying, “It’s a funny old game.”
It deserved to be preserved in joyous aspic in red and white on sweeping
Sward. With The Boys of 1966. At Wembley. But it wasn’t meant to be.



Poised To Thrill. At One Hundred Mill.

Is there anything like the absolutely blinding thrill
Watching a marauding one hundred mill?
In the guise of our returning prodigal chosen one?
Dump some hapless Gooner on his fife and drum
Leading the line to win at The Emptiness two-nil
To screams o’, ”Go on Lukaku, get in there…meshun!”.

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Thoughts of A Fickle Fan.

John-Joe sparked a smoke
Cracked a snarky topical joke
Bout Billy Bunter o’ The Arsenal, used play for us,
“As for Over-Eden Hazard at Madrid?
Injured? Who’s that Belgian trying a kid?
Quaffing mayoed pomme-frites, bier and molluscs?”,

Chipping his half-smoked cancer stick
J-J unwraps a steaming pack a haddock, roe n chips
Six pennyworth a crackling, wally, salt n vinegar pong
Sticking the snout behind his earring
Cracks an ice-cold can o’ Harpic, sneering,
“See Kev, they leave us, their life-style goes Pete Tong”.

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Source: http://footballpoets.org/news/poem-tags/chelsea/