Poems tagged ‘Manchester City’

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.

Denys E. W. Jones

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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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Manchester City beaten

At long last
City have
Fallen on
Stony ground
Spurs their
In size
No longer
And Chelsea
The title race
Is on,
City shaken
But Spurs
Pumping again

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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
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
As sprinting
Across the plains
And open
12 points
Ahead of the
Once pace
Setters of August
And September
When Liverpool
And Chelsea
Must have felt
Like expectant
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
Designs and
Multi -layered
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
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

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On A Magic Porto Night

on a stage where dreams come true
City sure they’d see it though
ev’rything within in their hands
very few could understand
how despite their buoyant fans
Chelsea could destroy their plans
pundits pointing clearly to
this one turning lightest blue
on a magic Porto night
all predictions soon took flight

in a daunting Covid year
fans all scrambling to be there
bumped up tickets few to spare
costly flights and tests to share
underdogs before the start
driven on by guts and heart
few would tip them Pep would trip them
Blues would slip and City clip them

early probing quicky sorted
James dictating Sterling thwarted
fans ecstatic pace is hectic
open play at times electric
like a mower through the grass
Mount delivers such a pass
Havertz sets off on his own
rounds the keeper slots it home
now it’s backs against the wall
who will rise and who will fall?
Tuchel’s begging to the crowd
roar us on and make it loud
City throw on ev’ryone
has Aguero’s moment come?
counting seconds tick away
can the Blues hold on today?

meanwhile Kante’s dominating
like some busy bee creating
in the middle tracking back
striding forward in attack
sliding-tackling pocket-picking
ever present ball-nicking
just like Joey Cole I swear
Kante’s flipping ev’rywhere
sometimes it’s hard to explain how he just controls the game
oozing class with ev’ry pass
Kante sees them home again
barely time to think or pause
at the end they’re on all fours
City still to reach their dream
what a final we have seen
one thing’s certain here for sure ..
Chelsea lift the cup once more

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Pep’s Recipe for Winning

The football played by Manchester City
is all about slick passing, possession and press.
They show the opposition no pity,
that’s the simple secret of their success.

It’s all about slick passing, possession and press
when de Bruyne, Foden and Sterling come to town.
That’s the simple secret of their success,
on their day they can knock anyone down.

When de Bruyne, Foden and Sterling come to town
they show the opposition no pity.
On their day it can knock anyone down,
the football played by Manchester City.

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It All Comes Out in the Wash

Two (European Super) Premier League
clubs, whose names chime with greed,
contest the (Football League, Milk,
Littlewoods Challenge, Rumbelows,
Coca-Cola, Worthington, Carling,
Capital One, EFL) Carabao Cup Final
on a Sunday at 4.30 in a stadium branded
‘Wembley connected by EE’.
One club is so pleased they’ve just sacked
their manager, while the other is simply
happy to be ‘sportswashing’ the U.A.E.

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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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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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Source: http://footballpoets.org/news/poem-tags/manchester-city/