Poems tagged ‘Man City’

Manchester City

Shock, horror
Morally repulsive
Football drowning
In its raging money
Driven ocean
Today Manchester City
Overwhelmed by millions
Of pounds raking in
Fortunes by the lorryload
Washing over the Etihad
£712.8 million
In their bank balance
Beyond madness
Simply a sin of
Irrational obsessions
Football officially
Loses its plot
The compass is now
Pointing directly
At shame blame
Name of the game
Just off the radar
Sinking inexorably
Spiralling out of control
Gurgling down the proverbial
Plug holes of
Wasted ambitions
Blurred focus
No longer considering
Those Post War fans
Who once paid a shilling
For entrance into
Football lands of paradise
When terraces heaved
With profusion of love
And understanding
Football now severely
Damaged and traumatised
By Saudi carrots of corruption
Money by the million, billion
Strangled by self indulgence
Blinded by the
Cosmetic surgery of
The gravy train
Hurtling through
Disgusting, disgusted
Tunnel of extravagance
No longer the game
We cherished when we
Were young
When programmes were 10p
And entrance onto the South
Bank at the Boleyn Ground
Was breakfast if you were keen
But lunch and blissful burgers
More likely
Cuisine at its best
Yet despairing of football’s
Appalling greed
The lust for luscious lucre
It has to be now or never
We must feed the cash cow
Seal the deal
Count the hundreds and thousands
By the minute, day, week, month
Constantly accumulating
Achingly acquisitive
Football beyond reproach
Judge and jury
May sentence you one day
To a spell of self examination
Stop for a moment
Contemplating the bigger picture
Soul searching urgently
Needed immediately
The pursuit of criminal
Wealth simply wrong
Offensive to the eye
And heart
But Manchester City
Feel free to enjoy
This freakish circus
You deserve it.

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Spurs have just beaten City…again
Dismissed by Guardiola as, “The Harry Kane Team”,
That’s four on the spin for the boys down The Lane
Whom appear, right on Song it would seem?

“We conceded due to loose balls”, reflects Pep
Interviewed on live television after yesterdays game
Hmm…that’s the best one I’ve heard from him yet
Does he mean like when England defeated The Danes?

Still, I’m sure Pep knows what he’s on about, but then again…

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Just Imagine?

Hakim strokes one in the net
Game on, we’re in control
Marcos/Callum, via a subtle duet?
Ensure Etihad party games on hold.

Pep ain’t best pleased, let’s be fair
T’was a nailed-on pen, I have to say
While Sterling squat on his derriere
Could have walked, the walk another day?

I sense the pressure building through it all
Watching that feeble Aguero take
How I’d Love to have been a fly on the wall
In the home team dressing room at the wake?

Just imagine; Crazy Horse,
Chopper Harris, Tommy Smith
Johnny Giles, and Big Jack, of course
Sucking oranges, chomping at the bit…

Bending Sergio Aguero’s lug-ole’s…
Bout the diabolical spot-kick missed,
Disrespecting his fellow pro’s,
Nonchalantly…trying a take the pith?

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Abridged Version.

Our…TT’s simply magnifique
Grasped the reins from Frank
Could have had it large at PSG?
But…they ain’t worth a franc
Another Wemberly tie awaits CFC
Implanted in our DNA
What a blinding sight, on a balmy night to see,
TT racing down the touch-line, sending City on their way!

Repeat n repeat n repeat!

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Maine Road Matchday ’69

Maine Road Matchday 69

A week at school wished away
Until at last it’s Saturday
Maine road matchday
Solemn commitment to worried mum
“I’ll be ok, I’m meeting a schoolchum”
Usually a lie, sometimes true
Most times I don’t, now and then I do

Bus to Piccadilly, the 219
Passing by the Courtaulds sign
Straight to Lewis’s department store
TV showroom, fourth floor
An array of tellies for sale or for rent
A small crowd gathers, all male, one intent
To watch football previews – in colour! A proper treat
Then through the gardens to Aytoun Street
For the football special, a red routemaster
Though some days you could walk it faster

Unshaven men with unwashed hands
Wait for custom at burger stands
Stained white overalls define their style
Not seen Persil for quite a while
Grubby nails on nicotine fingers
Haven for germs to thrive and linger
Burgers stacked in a tepid lake
Laced with fag ash, almost opaque
Not exactly items to savour
Like soggy cardboard, with slightly less flavour
Vegans hadn’t been invented yet
But if they had you can bet
They could have dined here safely
(Other than the obligatory tummy upset)

Floodlight pylons, an arresting sight
Frame Moss Side drizzle in vibrant light
Fumble in pocket for half a crown
Through creaking turnstiles, put the money down
Programme seller, refreshment stand
Last few coppers clasped in hand
Flat capped men clutch cups of Bovril
Repulsive odour fills the nostrils
Not a drink for little boys
Kia-Ora orange, that’s my choice
Money less than wisely spent
Real fruit content zero percent

Now time to spend another penny
But so few facilities for so many
Cascading rivers of metabolised booze
Fag ends hurtling along like canoes
Shooting the rapids, though this water’s not white
The stench unspeakable, that can’t be right
Is this what it’s like in a man’s world?

All set to ascend the stairway to heaven
To watch my heroes, one to eleven
Hordes of eager trampling feet
Pound on steps of crumbling concrete
Disintegration into rubble
Can only mean impending trouble
Paint peels on rusting railings,
Glaring health and safety failings
Never properly put to the test
Fingers crossed and hope for the best
Ibrox, two years on, 66 die
There, but for the grace of god, go I

Out come the teams to do their worst
Opponents first, always opponents first
“Bring on the champions” the Kippax boys roar
Even though we’re not champions any more
But we are still pretty damn good
Even on a pitch awash with mud
No names on the back of those shirts of sky blue
But I don’t even need numbers to tell who’s who
Bell’s athletic, imperious stride,
Lee chest out, bursting with pride,
Young floating with balletic grace
Book’s hunched gait and unlikely pace
I gaze out in awe, mesmerised
Precious images forever prized

Crowd disturbance, a sudden buzz
Rival fans on the loose, here come the fuzz
For those around me a huge distraction
But my eyes stay fixed on the action
People lean across for a better view
And I just think “what’s wrong with you?”
Our games aren’t on telly, well hardly ever
So blink and you’ll have missed it, forever
Giving morons the oxygen of attention
Even then well beyond my comprehension

Final whistle, don’t see me for dust
Sprinting away to run for the bus
At speed through dithering crowds I go
Sit next to someone with a radio
Final scores and reports from familiar voices
If United have lost the whole bus rejoices
At last Piccadilly, will the Pinks have arrived?
Was that first goal offside? Will they say Franny dived?

Read the Pink on the bus, cover to cover
Even the letters page, why do these people bother?
Relentless banality, always the same
From armchair experts, never been to a game

Walk home from the bus station, knock at the door
Mum’s there to meet me, she knows the score
Mood wholly dependent on how well we’ve done
Tea always tastes that much better if we’ve won
Then The Avengers and Match of the Day
Followed by Sunday grisly Sunday
The looming grim spectre of school on Monday
But Wednesday evening we’re at home again
Another trip to Maine Road’s my week’s only aim
Planting the seeds, night after night
Please mum, it’ll be alright
Some lads from school are going…

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Ruthless Reds rule the roost

Liverpool 3-1 Man City

City come out the cages fast
Lovren has Aguero in the pocket
Two handballs and the Reds break fast
Fabinho smashes a rocket

Salah lifts the lid of Anfield
It’s Liverpool adapting to the play
Hendo aims for the far post
For a killer third from Super Mane

When Silva makes it 3-1
Klopp and the Kop are no soft touch
Liverpool, Liverpool top of the League
From Pep it’s “thank you so much!”

10 11 19

© emdad rahman

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Kepa the leper

an act of dissent
to the bench
while the stench
of mutiny

Sarri fingered
as dead man walking
meanwhile Kepa?
like a leper

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