Football Poets

What’s it like to have no Poets?

Man City won the Premier League,
Their fourth one in a row!
And they have won much more besides,
From strength to strength they go.

But judging by this dear website,
The world would hardly know it.
Because this Trophy-hogging team
Does not have any poet.

West Ham have got Joe Morris.
The Reds have Sharon Jones.
Their rivals from across the Park,
Gacina and this Jones.

For Coventry there’s Kevin Halls,
For Chelsea Crispin, Clik.
Alas, it seems Man City fans
Together rhymes can’t stick.

26/5/24
Denys E. W. Jones

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City as slick as ever

Manchester City
Like a runaway train
Charging through
The sylvan glades
The swaying curtains
Of the majestic
Countryside that is
Their Premier League
Journey
They remind you
Of passengers rushing
To their railway
Platform, breathless
Before jumping onto
The Manchester City
Express, a locomotive
Pouring forth shining
Amethyst, topaz
The rubies of another
Premier League trophy
Norwich had nothing
To offer but limp
Acceptance and resignation
To their fate
The Championship
Rather like that old
78 vinyl record
That never lost its
Sentimental value
But then reverted
Back sadly to a
Time when nostalgia
Was but a child
With bruised knees
And dirty faces
Football played in
1950s back roads
And streets,
Norwich, wash
And clean that
Sad and mournful face
And relive the good times
City now though
Are now
Slickers,
Unstoppable
As sprinting
Cheetahs
Stretching
Across the plains
And open
Savannas
12 points
Ahead of the
Once pace
Setters of August
And September
When Liverpool
And Chelsea
Must have felt
Like expectant
Parents
They’ll have to wait
Though for
Another day
For the re-birth
Of another Premier
League crown,
The laurels of triumph
Surely though
City had kinks,
Flaws and delicate
Sensitivities
But here they are Raheem Sterling,
Phil Foden, Ilkay Gundogan
Pulling rabbits from their
Magical hats
Hypnotising and mesmerising
In equal measure
Scoring goals for fun
Like the sweet marzipan
And profiteroles we once
Knew in our younger years
Sterling scores another
Hat-trick
Again,
The Premier League
Theirs for the taking
Let the inevitabilities
Begin, take your bow
Now in the middle of
The winter chaos
Of fixtures
And then the Bees
Of Brentford
Drawing blanks
In goal-less bore
Against the Palace
Where still reside
Banqueting tables
Of Patrick Viera’s
Richest furniture
Easy on the eye
As the chaise longue
In the luxury of their
World. Then Brighton
Strollers, wandering
By the briny seas
And enjoying their season
Of flights of fancy
And fantasy in the
Top 10, neat
And attractive
As the handwriting
Of the fountain pen
Inscribing letters
In the capable hands
Of West London hands,
Christian Eriksen so
Glad to see the Danish
Play maker wearing
The football shirt
Again
After the traumas
Of last summer
When the world’s
Heart skipped a
Beat and so too did
Eriksen but now
Emboldened he’s
Back in Brentford
Colours
This time
Like some
Nobleman in red
And white stripes
Then Everton
Out of any danger
Now for a while
Since the wounded
Patient now looks
So much healthier
After extensive surgery
Lampard’s Toffees
Chew up and then
Devour Leeds
Who continue to
Give us baroque
And rococco
Masterpieces
But relegation
Haunts them like
A late night castle
Whom none should
Ever visit, ghosts
Of their past still
Hovering in the dark
Oh what on earth
Would the Leeds of
Don Revie and Billy
Bremner have thought
In their wildest imaginings
There must have been a logic
In subbing Raphinha, a Brazilian
Genius, a perfect blend of coffee
Scented, liquid ball control
Full of happy beans
Delightful skills
Now Roy Hodgson
Is back in football’s
Higher dress circles
Among the yellow hornets
Of the Watford template
When Graham Taylor
Became the sainted one
At the Vicarage Road
Rectory where the honeysuckle
Once lived in the shadow
Of the Luther Blissett and
Ross Jenkins pomp
And finally Manchester
United, now words
Fail us but this is not
The classic novel and
Film that sent us into
Lyrical raptures
United were held
By those Saints
Paragons of virtue
One Ralf and the other Ralph
Sharing
Common ground
And philosophies
Of playing the game
The right and proper
Way, moving the ball
Along the terra firma
Ground based assaults,
Passes dripping with
Syrupy gold, feet to
Feet but revealing
Very little of substance
United, dull as monochrome
No hint of any of the kaleidoscope
Of riotous colours
That once flowed from the boots
From Denis Law, George Best,
Bobby Charlton, princely
Presences on once
Glistening green
Befitting of Saturday
Afternoons at three
Now sadly United boast
Pogba, brilliant on his day
But then moody and irascible
At times, when evenings
Became darker and more dreary
Fernandes potentially untouchable
Whose beauty of touch soothes
The hectic, fevered brow
Jadon Sancho so much to offer
Potentially a permanent
England fixture, Jesse
Lingard still in the red
Shirt but for how much
Longer
Marcus Rashford
We could go on with
Pearls of praise
And flattery but
For now United
Are in dire need
Of an MOT
Beckham, Scholes,
Giggs and Butt
Simply names
Vanishing into
The brickwork
Of United’s past
The Premier League
In mid February
Ways of the world
Continue your play
On the greatest stage

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City – still flying.

Tis the last January
Of football’s calendar
Month,
A long way from
The fanfares, trophies
Cups, baubles
And stirring deeds
The final acclaim
But City are flying
Vying for the feeling
Experienced over
And over again
For the refrain
But not the rain
Of May
Where the princes
In victory
Receive yet more
Confetti and
Confirmation of
Premier League
Dominance
City, stopped
Quite suddenly
In their headlong
Charge for yet
Another title
So far ahead
Binoculars needed
To see the relentless
Gallop of the sleek
Steed, the horse
Kicking purposefully
For the final straight
Pep may be modest
And self-effacing
But he knows the
Outcome of
Inevitabilities
It’s written in
So many stars
The Guardiola
Charm offensive
Is soothing
Cynical souls
Held at the Saints
But full of feints,
Drops of shoulder
Clear the boulder
Now City bowl
Along, switching
Gears rapidly
Fast, fast
Quick, quick
Mesmeric staccato,
Passes, electric
Magnetic, a storm
Of magnificence
Streaks of lightning
Across St Mary’s
On Saturday
Full of Elgar’s
Pomp and Circumstance
Drums crashing on green
Turf
De Bruyne, Grealish
Full of fine lace
And filigree,
Patterned feet
Spraying crossfield
And diagonal,
Passes of sugar
Spun candy
Through the lines
Of complex mazes
Labyrinthine
Cul-de sacs
For Manchester
City this is Manuel
Pelligrini, Malcolm
Allison and Joe
Mercer, revisited
Simplicity on a
Well dressed plate
Of spices, herbs,
Seasoned with
Mouth-watering
Designs and
Multi -layered
Intricacy,
City will
Be Premier
League winners
Once again
Expression in
Their veins,
Art in their heart
Painting from easels
From near and far
Or maybe not
Since Liverpool
Are still breathing
Down Chelsea’s
London necks
Chasing, persevering
But not this year
Surely
Their season
Is out of season
Since City
And their trophy
Are waiting for
The royal command
Performance of
Champions again
It has to be theirs
Surely.

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Spanish Dave

Spanish Dave
So quiet on his debut, has he got what it takes?
He’ll need building up, better feed him on steak
They said “21 million, it’s some kind of joke
What use will he be on a wet night at Stoke?”

But in no time at all, we could see what we’d got
Was a player who might be the best of the lot
Killer through balls, balletic pirouettes
A first touch to die for, as good as it gets

Weaving this way and that, with effortless grace
A supernatural ability to find pockets of space
Flicks, tricks and dummies, a talent supreme
But only ever employed for the good of the team

Clatter into his ankles, smash him to the floor
He’ll just dust himself down and come back for more
Two men at his back but he still wants the ball
Only the bravest play with no fear at all

Like Colin the King, so humble and shy
At his best in the derbies, he made those reds cry
Six wins at Old Trafford, no blue’s ever had more
And the pass of a lifetime for Edin to bring up that score

Ten glorious years, so many pots won
With Zaba and Yaya, Vinny and Kun
Now those pundits who’d dissed him all say the same
If you don’t love this guy then you don’t love the game
A privilege to watch, a joy to behold
To be treasured forever, our Silva’s pure gold

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