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Poems tagged ‘Premier League’

Jamie Vardy

joe morris

Monday, May 12th, 2025

Yesterday the Foxes were
Foraging in the Forest
Rustling amid the
Stunningly manicured
Green grass
Of the City Ground
When the predatory
Jamie Vardy
Leicester’s liveliest
Stole the limelight
In these radiant sunbeams
Of magical May
And yet a striking resemblance
To the opening day of the season
In august August
A striker blessed with Nature’s
Finest gifts
Richly endowed
With a forward’s brain
Goals by the articulated lorry
Load,
Naturally inclined
Lethal instincts
In one on one
With only the keeper to beat
And yet it all started at Fleetwood
A Lancashire hot pot
Who had the lot
Vardy will never forget the elixir of
His life
It was always sweet as sugar
But when Leicester
Won the Premier League
We could hardly believe it
To be the truth
It did though happen
This seemingly optical illusion
But reality shone through
The blinds of our dining room windows
Flooding through our senses
Like the rushing River Trent
Certainly as yesterday in Nottingham
Vardy the late developer
But thank goodness for this hunter
This goal scoring nuisance
Nagging, pestering, persistent
What a year that was the year
That was
Leicester winning the Premier League
Top of the shop
Vardy a wild gale force wind
Blowing ruthlessly through
Opposition defences
Shots from all geometric angles
Defying Pythagoras
Ferocious as cannon fire
Headers like bullets from the
Most lethal pistol
Vardy, gorging and devouring goals
From selfish and unselfish points
Of the compass
But then he lifted the ultimate trophy
And the King Power Stadium
Elevated him to saintly status
One of Ranieri’s rampant raiders
Ransacking, nicking, sniffing,
Poaching in prolific penalty areas
For those who remember Filbert Street
Vardy answered the prayers
Of the fans who then witnessed
The improbable, a miracle of
Science and movement
Time stood still
But in the final stages
Of the season
The curtain fell on
Vardy’s diamond studded career
Leicester fans
Find a sadistic thrill
In holding their
Local rivals
Nottingham Forest
To points shared
A dropped point for
Nuno’s stylists
Greeks bearing no gifts
The owner’s face of thunder
Reminding Forest of their
Fallible weak spots
And yet this had been Jamie’s day
Capped briefly with England
But Jamie Vardy
Step forward into this
Canopy of all time greats
Greatness rewarded
A goal scorer for
All seasons
Leicester will always
Fondly remember

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Liverpool, Liverpool

joe morris

Monday, April 28th, 2025

And so it came to pass
An explosion of rejoicing
A cascading torrent of celebration
Ecstasy in excelsus
Merseyside rules OK
Scousers jumping and jiving with joy
Liverpool win the Premier League
For the 20th time
A sharp intake of breath
In case we were imagining it
No greater city deserves it more
We suspected they would do it
And now it has
What powers of foresight
Somewhere Shanks must be dancing
In some celestial street
For it was Bill Shankly who created
This wondrous phenomenon
During 1950s grey palls of austerity
When all hope seemed lost
At Anfield
He knew he’d find a man mountain
Named Ron Yates, Ian Callaghan
All cultured thinking on the ball
Peter Thompson,free as a bird
On the wing flying like a cormorant
Into the fading light
Of countless winter evenings
When Liverpool were just enjoying
Themselves thoroughly
Chalking up old First Division
Championships by the conveyor belt
An abundance of adulation
Ian St John, always driven and committed
To the cause
Then during the 1970s
Tommy Smith, hard as nails,
Keegan and Toshack
Batman and Robin
Human dynamos
Unstoppable Chris Lawler,
Ray Kennedy, most graceful of playmakers
Phil Boersma, always available
Before the 1980s brought us Souness,
Explosive and elegant in the same breath
Then King Kenny ruled his roost at Anfield
And then his goal scoring obsession
Sent the Kop surging and swaying one way
Tidal waves of happiness and good times
A recurring theme
Sweeping across the Albert Dock
With nothing but glad tidings
As Liverpool became addicted to winning
European Cups and more League championships
Yesterday they sailed the Ferry across the
Mersey and paid lyrical homage
To Gerry Marsden and the Pacemakers
The Liver Birds building almost
Nodding in deference to the legend that
Is Liverpool football club
The Kop awash with worship
Yesterday they gathered again
To celebrate at the pyramids
Of Egyptian genius
Mo Salah, so reminiscent
Of King Kenny at his peak
Goals of all textures and techniques
The boss of the penalty box
And now welcome to the stage
Arne Slot, a Dutch master
Adding the final impressionistic touch
No Rembrandt but there are footballing
Shades of beauty
At his easel, a riot of red
Watercolours artfully applied
To this perfect painting
Liverpool Premier League Champions
Say it for the 20th time
It just seems to roll off the tongue

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Southampton relegated – and two more.

joe morris

Saturday, April 12th, 2025

So there it is
Southampton relegated
From the Premier League
Oh woe by the South Coast
Too late to boast
Conclusive proof
That those in the Championship
Were far too aloof
Could never quite hack it
Without the kit
Among the bigger boys
With the Premier League toys
In the most daunting school
Of them all
Yet never the fool
The Saints go marching out
Never given a shout
At the burning embers of the season
No reason
Here in early April
Springtime flaunts her
Daintiest dresses
Never messes with our body clock
You can still hear the tick tock
And the cuckoos
Who used to open
Their sweetest throats
Amid the bobbing boats
At the court of
Lawrie Mcmenemey’s
Decibel driven Dell
All was always well
Now mourn the loss
The gathering moss
Of another wasted
Premier League campaign
What an excruciating pain
The blue spring skies
Why oh why?
Weeping copiously
Sobbing hopelessly
On tear stained terraces
St Mary’s broken and beaten
Desolate and defeated
No longer heated by
The wistful warmth of late
August
What have Southampton
Got to do
To keep afloat
In the shark infested waters
Of the Premier League?
Maybe the Saints need
The rosary bead
The comforting influence
Of vicars and priests
With kind hearts
But now the Saints
Hang their heads not
In shame and pity
Or maybe not
More resignation
To harsh reality
Whatever will be will be
But certainly not
Going to Wembley
More like the New Den
At Millwall
And deep into Deepdale
Where the Preston plumbers
Of Tom Finney’s finest await
Football can be so cruel and callous
Southampton out of their depth
In the Premier League
But probably too good for
The Championship
Then there’s Leicester
Down in the dejected dungeons
Mired in the relegation drop zone
Foxes teetering on the edge
Wolves hounding them
Predators hunting both
Ready to devour the
Rotting carcasses
The King Power no longer
Rubbing shoulders with regal
Crowns and princes
Destined perhaps for demotion
Ruud Van Nistelrooy
A Dutch master still seeking
The perfect masterpiece
And then there was Wolves
Howling in the wilds
And wind swept
Fields of old gold
Possibly, hopefully not
Your claret and blue
West Ham to the core
Never losing the faith
And yet left adrift
In the placid lagoons
Of gentle lapping waves
Going nowhere in particular
The most dreadful season
Where a valiant Spaniard
Julen Lopetegui thought
He knew best
But only produced the worst
It’s all too much for some
The final furlongs of
That Premier League steeplechase
Relegation and promotion hurdles
Wreaking havoc with our
Seasons of snow, wind
And now the cherry blossom
Of springtime fruition
Light and shade
Darkness and delight
Ready your transistor radios
For the last day of the season
It’s make or break
Nerve wracking in the extreme
Bite those teeth
Clench those molars
Again and again
Fingernails fraught with fear
And terror
But sadly the Saints are down
Donning the downcast gown
We’ll miss those
Virtuous souls
Who thought they’d seen
It all but then found
That hope had gone
To stony ground
Those caring faces
Wearing proper bootlaces
At St Mary’s
Now grim and gaunt
Those spirits will haunt
Them when June meets July
Oh why?
And football reflects
For a while
The Saints did have style

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Business as usual

joe morris

Sunday, October 6th, 2024

It’s business as usual
It almost feels like a
Throwback
When John, Paul, Ringo
And George
Were a worldwide phenomenon
And Sergeant Peppers was
A cultural icon
Listen to the sweetest larynxes
Of the Kop
When Anfield was the place
To be, clearly and powerfully
Heard and seen
Unmistakably so
Liverpool will never walk alone
And now back
At the top of the pile
Premier League pacesetters
It was never in any doubt
Yesterday ransacking the
Cottagers of Fulham
Get out of their property
Craven Cottage, still a
Thriving industry
Holding their own
Under Marco Silva
But demolished by
The wrecking ball
Of Arne’s army
Liverpool lording it
Again at the top
Of the Premier League
The flying Dutchman
A gentle, tranquil wind
In the air
Amid the canals and windmills
Of Liverpool’s
Watertight defence and
Purring, humming attack
Meanwhile back at the
London Stadium
Your claret and blue
Squadron of battle hardened
Soldiers
Finally crack open
The bubbly
West Ham, awake
From a hat-trick of
Home discomforts
No longer the laughing stock
Of those who still believe
David Moyes should
Still be in charge
Finally the penny drops
Trouble at the Olympic Stadium
Lopetegui, knives were out
Gallows and executioners
Sharpening blades
The sack race is poised
And ready to go
Sack that Spanish toreador
But fourth defeat
On home turf
Avoided thankfully
Yesterday autumn parked itself
On the lush green turf
Of the Olympic Stadium
Shadows stretching their limbs
Across the verdant acres
Of wide expanses
Of East End pasturelands
Which is where Ipswich
Came in from their world
Of cattle and livestock
Where the crops have yet
To yield a harvest
Of form or goals
This is the Premier League
And the Tractor Boys
Have yet to hit the ground
Running, instead wading in
Treacle and stuck fast
Near the bottom of the
Top flight
Languishing in the Plankton
Yet to adjust and acclimatise
Familiarising themselves
With the script and punchline
Of the Premier League’s
Latest episodes
Yesterday Antonio after 50 seconds
Flicking home the opener
For the Irons
And then suddenly Suffolk
Hearts were boosted
Surprisingly and unexpectedly
Delap drilling home the equaliser
Now the grumbling throats
Of the harrumphing Hammers
Growled their dissent and discord
Not again surely they
Cry in unison
The natives were restless
Dumbstruck and despairing
What will become
Of those euphoric European
Heroes when Prague
Was once conquered?
Then just before half time
A light at the end of
The darkest tunnel
Mo Kudus showered with kudos
Scrambling home via Antonio
And the crossbar
Give that man a seat
Now the second half
And the music has rhythm
Claret and blue
Orchestras tuned and
Hitting melodic heights
Pacqueta spicing up
The coffee beans
Of the Brazilian blend
Neatness and artistry
Whenever the mood took him
Illustrations and pictures
In his mind
Before Soucek, Emerson,
Rodriguez from the pampas
Of Argentina
Carve open the blue fields
Of Ipswich
Sowing the seeds of more
Ripened crops
But then,
Stopped in their tracks
Firstly Jarrod, the captain
Bowen at his most
Sharp eyed and observant
Runs and runs
Before cutting back onto
That lethal, favoured feet
Third goal at a heartbeat
West Ham home and hosed
No way back for newly promoted
Ipswich
What on earth would Sir Bobby
And Sir Alf made of the
Modern incarnation?
When Portman Road almost
Saw yet another fruition
Of best laid plans
When Crawford and Phillips
Mariner, Gates, Mick Mills
Eric Gates
Were always on song
But the class of 2024 is
A labour of love
The potters wheel yet to
Produce from the
Finest clay
But yesterday
Pacqueta finishes
With fourth
The Hammers happy again
Glazed earthenware
Yesterday a masterclass
Masterpiece.
That’s the way to do it
West Ham
Up into mid table safety
Yet to reach double figures
But London Stadium
Not quite as toxic
Or inflammatory
Four goals in the East End
Now there’s a rarity
Mini celebrations
Let the panic dissolve
Like pills in water
Soothe savage breasts
Victory lives again
Take it easy
West Ham
International breaks
To calm raging storms
A hint of revolt
Now stilled and stalled
Early season traumas
May just have vanished
Like stars that wax and wane
Rest worried West Ham
From the woes and cares
Of alarms and agitation
Let the season
Begin here and now
We must hope

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New season.

joe morris

Saturday, August 17th, 2024

New season
Familiar songs
Different days
Billiard top green
Surfaces
Thick, horizontal
Lines and
Symmetrical hopes
And dreams
Freshly painted terraces
Turnstiles oiled
No longer rusty or careworn
Forlorn remnants of last season’s
Headlines and back page glorification
Today, this weekend
The klaxon call to arms
Ammunition primed and ready
At Arsenal
City, just synchronised
As usual for a record breaking
Fifth successive Premier League
Land of paradise
Even now in the middle of August
It just feels like the beginning
Of spring
It feels as though Manchester City
Have no time frame or
Specific moment
But the leading contenders
At the top are sure
To be breathing fire
Down the necks
Of the bourgeois elite
Liverpool will take their slot
In the top six
Under Arne’s Anfield army
The Kop will gather
In their plush all seated pomp
Rather than swaying and surging
Like the Albert Dock in full flow
With only a whispering murmur
From Shanks, Bob Paisley
And Joe Fagan
From the inner sanctum
Of the Boot Rooms
Of the past
It’s the start of another
Nine month marathon
Where points will be shared
In the intimate gatherings
Of the Vitality Stadium
Where Bournemouth will no
Longer be punching above their weight
And the Premier League newcomers
Who are the Tractor Boys
Of Ipswich will be fondly
Recalling Sir Bobby and Sir Alf
Coaching geniuses
Undoubtedly so
One a League Championship winner
And the other FA Cup winners
In 1978 and Osbourne
Never looked back in anger
And then the Saints
Southampton back among
The holier than thou
St Mary’s will be
Bulging at the seams
Ready to acclaim
A modern day Terry Paine,
Mickey Channon, Phil Bowyer,
KK, Kevin Keegan and dear
Bobby Stokes, oh dearly beloved
Lawrie at the helm
Always calm, no sweat
Guardsman, ramrod straight
But this season
The Premier League promises
A contest of thrills
Spills, the mysterious
VAR with its mystical aura
The goals that should have been
But never were
The ones that took centuries
To decide but then
Needed the services of another
TV screen
Just in case the vision
Was blurred
And incurred the wrath
Of the home faithful,
Football no longer
The province of certainty
And immediacy
Just lost in a raging whirlwind
Of penalties given
Because the ball hit the back
Of elbows or
The edge of finger nails
It’s the Premier League
Season, yet again
Blow that whistle
It’s good to be back

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You can hear and see the new season

joe morris

Wednesday, July 31st, 2024

Far beyond the distant horizon
Where churning oceans meet
Auspicious dawns of the
New football season
Hark we hear thundering boots
With purple or yellow laces
Oh, surely a figment of the imagination
City, Arsenal, United, Spurs,
Chelsea quite possibly
Liverpool never knowingly underestimated
Heating up late summer barbecues
Of early August meaty contests
At the moment, a sweltering heatwave
May yet reach boiling point
When the Premier League fires up
Its seasonal crackling flames
Of end to end penalty area boxes
Of tricks and flicks,
Low blocks and presses
Playing from the back
And delivering stacks of goals
Yet more contentious VAR,
The proverbial pain in the neck
Scrap it now before
Gary, Alan, Danny and co.
Burst blood vessels
They can take no more
We’ll always have Match of the Day
Whatever the final score
And so the new Premier League season
Is upon us, summer
Tans now ancient history
On players faces of pristine hope
We hope you’re ready
For the mighty and dominant
Household names
To prove their worth
On the birth of August
Where everybody starts on
A clean slate,
Egalitarianism rules OK.
We’re all on a level playing
Ground, no points on
The board and all in hot
Pursuit of flying starts
It’s three points for some
And none for the rest
But the Premier League season
Will probably have nobody
At the top of the pile
Come the end of the first weekend
Since football opens up
A fresh page with a brand new
Chapter of errors
Defensive blunders
Stunning goals,
Near misses and gasps of delight
The rich tapestry of life
Takes pride of place
In the art galleries
Of the rich and pampered
The new boys and those
Simply aspirational
Let the fun begin
Premier League football
We can hardly wait

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The lull before the storm

joe morris

Monday, July 22nd, 2024

A haunting silence
Falls across English
Football once again
Like a hollow bowl
Of emptiness
So near and yet so far
Another tournament
That promised jewels
On German foothills
But only yielded
A pitiful whimper
In Euro 2024
Another Final,
Another defeat
But hold your heads high
It could hardly have been
Any worse
Now the Premier League
Beckons like
A lighthouse beacon
Winking lights
In the distance
Just under a month to go
Business as usual
Before, as if
Nothing had happened
The Beautiful Game
Slaps on its
Garish, cosmetic make up
Mustn’t forget the lipstick
And yet why?
Since football always
Looks pretty without
Any of those facial
Adornments
Handsome in August
When the bowling greens
Of football’s pristine
Petticoats,
Re-start in earnest
The Premier League
Flaunting their finest clothes
Not long to go before
Well clipped and manicured
Grass, smooth as coffee
Drink in that atmosphere
Players and managers
Take to centre stage again
Bare chests on late summer
Terraces and stands
Stretching far and wide
Football’s loveliest tapestry
Ready for the nine month
Marathon again
City, once again favourites
To do it all over again
Not five in a row, surely
The Premier League
Must be dreading this
But records are there
To be broken
Arsenal and Arteta
Like dragons breathing fire
Down clammy Manchester City
Shirts and skies of
Light blue
Arsenal, probably
Lucky at third time
Of asking, it has
To be their season
Never felt better,
Fitter or stronger
Law of averages
And there was
Legendary Liverpool,
Leafing back through the
Ancient pages of history
When Bill Shankly and Bob
Paisley made it look
So effortless
Jurgen now gone
But never forgotten
Heavy metal football
And yet light and nimble
On their feet
Spurs, now almost
Too comfortable on
Their richest sofa
Of the top flight
But the Double, like
Some vanishing star
From an age ago
Somehow Blanchflower,
Medwin, White, Dyson
And Jones
Are now strangers
In modern playgrounds
But let us never exclude
Manchester United
From the glittering lights
A stunning tour de force
Under Fergie’s fledglings
Who swept all comers
Under dusty carpets
Winning Trebles, cups
Premier Leagues, FA Cups
Champions League twice
Garlanded by the great and good
Now though Eric
With all the delicacy of
The Dutch
Who never made the right
Grade at World Cup jamborees,
Eric Ten Haag
Can those all conquering
Unbeatable days
Be recaptured?
Can modern day Beckhams, Giggs,
Butt and Scholes
Break through the summer haze
Into autumnal shades
Of fabulous football fiestas?
The Premier League just
A couple of weeks away again
Just for a week or two
Football on level playing fields
All equality since
Three points mean nothing
In early August or September
Before the juddering juggernaut
Sets off on that memorable journey
To who knows where?
By Christmas and the New Year
Clear pictures emerge
City, giggling in the background
Catch them if you can
Arsenal chase in hot pursuit
Spurs, Liverpool, Villa
You’re on their elusive coat tails
They could be contenders
And Bogart could only agree
Rub your hands with
Chants of choice words
It’ll be the Premier League
Again
Coming to a cinema
Near to you
Let the drama and chaos
Begin once more

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The penultimate weekend

joe morris

Saturday, May 11th, 2024

We knew it would come down
To this day,
This penultimate weekend
The final drum rolls
That Premier League percussion
Rumbling across the days
Of Sabbath and rest
A thrilling frisson
Of activity, tension
At snapping point
37 games and one or two to go
Down by the Cottage
Where the River Thames flows
And tomorrow
The Theatre of Dreams
Rehearsing their lines
A Sunday matinee
Who knows?
Manchester United and
Arsenal go head to head
While down at the bottom
The Hatters
Will be searching for
Mesmerising milliners
At the London Stadium
The sun will have its
Hat on
Luton Town
Must hope
Burnley searching
Among the debris
Of their season
For nuggets of gold
Lowry will be clasping
Desperate hands
And closing rheumy eyes
Relegation like a
Guillotine over
Charcoal mills
Tumbling down those
Well sculpted hills
Yet it could be
Survival
At Turfmoor
Where match stick
Kids and dogs
On the corner of
Their factory gates who
Once oozed industry,
Diligence and
Industrial might
You can never tell
Will it be Forest
Peering through
The canopy of trees
That comforted them
Season through season?
And yet at the top
City are very much
On their now traditional
Starting point
Of the grid
They’ve seen this before
Neck and neck with Arsenal
Purring and humming
With North London melodies
Will the Cottagers bring it
Home to breaking point
For the incomparable City?
Hearts thumping
Magical arteries?
Or will Pep pip the Gooners
Once again
We can hardly look
The Gunners visit the
Theatre of Dreams
Tomorrow
Centre stage,
Treading the boards
Where United’s Fergie
Once orchestrated
The mood music
At Old Trafford
Arsenal will be
The invited guests
To the party
They must hope
Of a lifetime
It’s been 20 years
Now since Arsene Wenger
That purple prose polyglot
A man of so many languages
Football through and through
Lifted so many Premier League
Titles at the Emirates
And halcyon Highbury
Tomorrow could be Arsenal’s
Day of days
A penny for your thoughts
George Graham
Since you were the catalyst
For Arsenal
In those tantalising last
Seconds at Anfield 1989
Or will it be City again?
A quartet of Premier League
Sonnets
It could happen,
Edge of seat scenarios
Surely the greatest team
Since, well United and
Liverpool were kings
Of both England and the
Rest of Europe
Klopp now leaving on the last
Train on Lime Street platform
Surely the Merseysiders
Will narrowly miss out
On the jubilant jubilee
The final words
Of this classic novel
It’s been a masterclass
Undoubtedly so
What a season
But come the end of the
Weekend we will know
Who’s who
The destiny of destinies
Red or light blue
It surely will be
Tomorrow
London or the North West
Of England’s cultured
Neatly drawn contours
Battling for the
Ultimate honour
The icing on the cake
As an impartial neutral
It’s Arsenal
Because London is our home
But the Citizens
Of City, Manchester you know
Will be upright and respectable
It’s too close to call
City and Arsenal
Top prizes for one and
All, Premier League
Those last but one shows

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The Tractor Boys are back

joe morris

Saturday, May 4th, 2024

So Ipswich Town are back
In the Premier League
Boiling furnace
Let’s go crazy in the fenlands
It’s been simply ages
Since the agricultural heartlands
Of Suffolk witnessed
Seasonal harvests of goals
And goal scorers
Fallow grounds and
Hollow defeats
For seemingly an eternity
Nothing to lift broken spirits
At Portman Road
The end of the world
If not quite
For decade upon decade
But then the Phoenix
Rose from the ashes
And today the Tractor Boys
Ploughed the ultimate furrow
Ipswich now buoyed
By the memory
Of victorious Sir Alf
The man who reluctantly
Danced with the World Cup
When his mind gave him
Permission to do so
Back in 1966 for England
But then Crawford and Phillips
Had been hot as the sun
Up front
Several years before
Before Ipswich won the old
First Division
League Championship
Barely believable
But future generations
Of Tractor Boys
Have planted the seeds
Of another revolution
Sir Bobby Robson
Yet another England legend
Once coaxed and nurtured
The sprightly striplings
Of Eric Gates, Trevor Whymark,
The much missed David Johnson
Goals in every suburb, town
Village and City
Of the British shires
Mick Mills at the back
Like an immovable door
None ever passed his way
Kevin Beattie, stern, solid
As the brick wall made of
The strongest cement
And Clive Woods
Finding his feet in the
Heather and gorse
Of prickly defences
A winger of the highest class
Teasing, twisting, humiliating
Dropping shoulders, dummying
With dashing distinction
Then floating crosses for
Johnson who never shirked
Headers and persevered
Until whistle’s end
Ipswich so close to winning
The old First Division
But then narrowly missing
Out by a hairs breadth
A red combine harvester
Named Liverpool had far
Too many missiles in
Their elegant repertoire
Never mind
Perhaps their day will come
Still, let’s bask in the glow
Of today’s Ipswich
Back on nodding terms
With the millionaire elite
Of the Premier League’s
Movers and shakers
Like that richly furnished
Mahogany cabinet
We’d always varnished
With loving care
The loveliest porcelain
Ornament that time
Will never forget
Welcome back Ipswich
One of those oldest friends
Save me a seat at the
Emotional reunion
When the Premier League
Gathers together again
In August, it should be
In august surroundings

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The top three battle it out

joe morris

Friday, March 29th, 2024

And so the Premier League
Hits the final straight
It’s good to be Friday
But tomorrow promises
To be even better
Even more virtuous
Boats on the Thames
Over the weekend
For traditional
University head to head
Since time immemorial
For Oxford and Cambridge
Read Manchester City and
Arsenal while never overlooking
Liverpool on their shoulders
Tally ho chaps
Let the battle commence
It could be the most
Gripping Premier League
Title race
Since both Liverpool
And Arsenal arrived
Together at the
Finishing post
At an Anfield
Fever pitch
And Nick Hornby
Was poised to pen
Literature that sung
In our hearts and his
1989, Tony Adams
Alan Smith and then
Michael Thomas
The game now at boiling point
Another crashing, dramatic
Crescendo of noise
The last kick of the game
It certainly was up for grabs
Much loved Brian uttered
Thomas through and then jabbing
The ball into the net
The old League Championship
In the Gunners pocket
Now though Arteta’s artists
Poised for a reproduction
Of that scintillating moment
When football simply
Went above the call of duty
Surpassing all other nights
Arsenal, it could be their
Season of seasons
The fans think they deserve
It for being who they are
It’s their prerogative to be
League Champions
Since their history demands
Yet another trophy
At the Emirates
Odegaard, Saka, Rice,
It has to be inscribed
On that gleaming silverware
And nobody would begrudge them
Yet more glorious feats
Of skill, strength and athleticism
Passing from Mount Olympus
But then there’s City
In their rear view mirror
Threatening to overtake
If heavy traffic gets in their way
Pep’s football painters
Manchester City are clinging onto
The coat tails, never
Underestimate football’s classicists
Always playing from memory and instinct
Serene as the softest breezes
From the whispering winds
Silence please
The top three heavyweights
Are preparing their assaults
For the crucial finishing line
The winning feeling
The open top bus parade
Around those local streets
Where so many victorious fans
Gathered from everywhere
Last but not least Liverpool
But of course
Klopp’s last throw of the dice
Anfield is presumptuous
And almost expects
Almost as many as trophies
As their fierce rivals
Glinting reflections of
Yesteryear when Bill Shankly,
Bob Paisley, Bertie Mee
And George Graham
Then the professor Arsene Wenger
Who was remarkably unbeatable
During that season of Invincibles
While City were profusely thankful
To Joe Mercer, Malcolm Allison,
Manuel Pellegrini
Gave City status and stature
Recognition in the shadow
Of Fergie’s United
Manchester United
Who set the tone and pitch
Manchester’s giants
Now boasting and gloating
Premier League titles
Crowned on the same day
At season’s end
So the Premier League
Lifts the handbrake
Presses the accelerator
Pedal, go for it
Gentlemen,
Let this one go
To the final day
Of the season
Radios by the ear
On terraces of tears
And trepidation
Then that indefinable
Feeling of
Yes we’ve done it
Lap of honour
The Premier League
Is theirs, ours,
Yours
How we relish it

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Source: http://footballpoets.org/news/poem-tags/premier-league/