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Poems tagged ‘Dark Humour’

A Quiet Game of Football

Martin Hadfield

Wednesday, January 5th, 2022

I’ve heard commentators say it was the game of the century
That it was the greatest there was in our living memory
“It would only be fair if both sides could win”
Was heard in the grandstands above the din
And at the end of the day with such a close result
It could never be said that game was dull

When it’s four nil at halftime and the crowd’s gone home
And the team getting thumped have got Stockholm Syndrome
The pundits will say football won on the day
And we’re lucky to see such powerful play.
While I listlessly stare at a circling seagull
I never heard it said once that the game was dull

When the referee constantly stops the play
And both teams appear to be in disarray
All the crowd can do is mumble and groan
And your team scarf hangs like a heavy millstone
Even though some games are just one big lull
You won’t hear it said that the game was dull

As one of the players succumbs to an injury
And you wish all the rest would be put out of their misery
Cos it’s slow and its sloppy and they’re not even rivals
Because neither team can even get into the finals
The commentary is loud and they’re hotly debating
In a desperate attempt to hold on to some ratings
Can’t you get it into your thick skull
You will never hear it said that a game is dull.

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Penalty Shootout in Zero Gravity

Joe Williams

Tuesday, January 4th, 2022

It was Barry’s idea, so
he only has himself to blame.
For all the thrill of orbital flight,
of seeing the Earth from space,
those journeys are so damn boring.

I admit to sneaking the ball in,
and that Barry was winding me up.
The running commentary didn’t help,
calling me Gareth Southgate,
him being Andreas Köpke.

No one could have predicted
the ball would hit the airlock button,
just when Barry was leaping up,
trying to stop my rocket blast,
straight to the top left corner.

Perhaps he’ll be a hero yet,
get a glove to an asteroid
hurtling towards the Earth.
The slightest of deflections,
nudging it over the bar.

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Epiphany in Park Lane.

kevin raymond

Friday, February 5th, 2021

En route to Kensal Rise, via Stamford Bridge,
At behest of the quare one, and Sean’s kids
His hearse purred to a halt at The Bovril Gate
We clambered out, sparked a pensive smoke
Reminiscing a, you had to have been there, sepia joke,
Blinding times, shared in The Shed with our old mate.

Declan produced a silver flask
Raised, as a roaring double decker passed,
His toast to absent friends, drowned in its wake
Couple over on a pilgrimage from Japan
Shared our china’s grief on Instagram
Quicker than a spieling tout moves on the make.

In the hired jam-jar, Van The Man
Touched our hearts as well he can
Gliding through a doleful, Carrickfergus
The quare one looked across at me
Pulling away from Sean’s beloved CFC
To softly sing in tearful poignant verse.

A stark and eerie Fulham Road
Glistening pavements we had strode
Queuing up all night for tickets in the rain
Seemed to know of Sean’s demise
Set of temporary traffic lights
Stayed steadfast on Go, and didn’t change.

Our jam-jar passed South Ken
Declan’s flask appeared again
A sombre mood prevailed outside The V&A
Stopping opposite Harrods in a jam
Celery and blue carnations close at hand
Passer’s by, bowed heads, or stared at us amazed.

Through howling wind, incessant rain
We aquaplaned Park Lane, Park Lane!
Which reminds me? Strewth! I’ve nothing else to say
Sorry…I can’t continue this tale of abject woe
After gleefully witnessing the antics of Mourinho
Alongside, his teams confusing lack-lustre display.

See…our china, Sean, might be brown bread
But as he often said, stood in The Shed,
“Ain’t nothing matters…long as we do well at Spurs away”.

Peace.

Stay sage. Bode well.

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