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Poems tagged ‘Premier League’

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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Spurs – top of the Premier League surely not

joe morris

Tuesday, October 24th, 2023

And now for something
Completely different
Startling and totally
Unexpected
Spurs are top of the
Premier League
Gasps of astonishment
On the Richter scale
Colossal shifting of
Tectonic plates
Surely not
Last located as
Ruling emperors
In the land of trophies
That was the era
Of revolution
Sensation,
Rampant materialism
Spurs win the old
First Division
In the days of Cliff’s
Summer Holiday
Adam Faith’s warbling
Breathless tonsils
Adored by the screaming
Girls from the beehive age
The personification of
Youthful rock star
Back in 1961 and 62
The Double Diamonds
Of White Hart Lane
Intoxicated our souls
With classical intonations
Spurs once monarchs
Of North London
In the throne room
Along the Seven Sisters Road
Spurs once marched
Imperiously down
Well trodden pavements
With Bill Nick
Bill Nicholson’s Double
Winners
Almost an ancient artefact
Deeply buried in the
Haunted crypt of decades
Long since gone
But of course Spurs have
Been top of the house
Before but now consigned
To the yellowing pages of
History, historic
Football literature
Kings of the castle
Once but not since
The dawn of the Sixties
Steel shutters guarding
Their impenetrable fortress
When Terry Dyson streamlined,
The sumptuous flowering
Of only one Bobby Smith
A player written in golden scriptures
Learned in the arts of the striker’s
Finishing school
Then there was Danny Blanchflower
A member of Bill Nick’s
Midfield nobility
A player of regal status
Statesmanship and subtlety
Poise and sitting aloft
With the crown of authority
Upon that always receptive head
Groaning with idealism
Never flustered, ruffled
Or rumpled, just in charge
Of a centre circle
Vastly knowledgeable
A model of footballing
Erudition who once snubbed
Eamonn’s
Red book of life
Then there were the days
Of Hoddle and Waddle,
Crooks and Archibald
Ricky and Ossie
Presiding over their
Rugged landscape
Of Cup Final glory days
And who could ever forget
Nice One Cyril Knowles
John Pratt, Mike England
Just impassable
You’re not coming in
Without a ticket sir,
Steve Perryman Tottenham
In his bloodstream
From birth
Genetically dependable
Captain of the ship
Land ahoy ladies and gentleman
Perryman a leader by nature
And nurture
Lifting the FA Cup in 1981
While our pals from the pampas
Ossie and Ricky
Gingerly skipped across
Old Wembley’s timeless charms
Teachers of the tango
To Tottenham’s lively dance floor
Fleet of feet,
Dainty and dextrous
But never Strictly
Now though today
Tottenham are back at the top
Not for long the noisy Gooners
Neighbours must hope
Since these are infant days
Of autumn and September dews
Mists and mellow fruitfulness
Crunching, sweeping
Playful yellow leaves
The last conkers
Of the season
Now just a fleeting reminder
Of back then
Winter awaits
Tottenham
Judgments reserved
It’s a long and gruelling
Season spanning endless
Bridges of the present
There’s a long way to go
So be prepared for the
Marathon, Spurs
Next May and Premier
League debating tables
Have yet to whisper
And mutter triumphant
Declarations
Your winning trophy
After 60 years of drought
Is not even an embryo
Or thought

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Premier League round up.

joe morris

Sunday, October 8th, 2023

So North London
Reigns supreme
Rivalry intensified
The fires of antagonism
Leaping flames and pouring
Smoke gushing forth
From the Tottenham Hotspur
Stadium and the Emirates
Arsenal and Spurs level pegging
At the top of the Premier League
Smouldering animosities
Passions overwhelming
Locked in loathing
Nothing between them
A rare sight
But both leading the way
Spurs yesterday straightening
The trilbies and boaters
Of Luton’s Hatters
Who must have thought they’d
Turned a corner at Goodison
With a first win in the top flight
But even happy Harry Haslam
Would have been downcast
And disheartened
By Luton’s brave facade
Against Spurs stylish carriage
Sadly not enough on the day
For the team that the Stein brothers
And Lil Fuccillo once graced
With Bedfordshire graciousness
Not quite the way they
Would have wished to see
Premier League newcomers
Doffing their hat at a rakish tilt
Today of course Arsenal
Never the amiable neighbours
Finally shut the door in the face
Of Manchester City
Three precious points for the Gunners
1-0 to the Arsenal, a familiar refrain
Almost the National Anthem at Highbury
Land of Hope and Glorious Arsenal
Emirates immersed in title
Winning fantasies
Yesterday though in the land
Of Lancashire hot pots and
Lowry’s matchstick men
And once thriving industrial mills
Burnley in the best company
Of Vincent lost in the world
Of Chelsea’s threshing machine
Four of the best from
Mauricio’s men from the Bridge
Sterling in the finest currency
Chelsea up and running
Then Roy’s Palace find
Their butlers and servants
Standing guard
At the gates of
The Forest predators
Foraging for scraps
And discovering no goals
A rigid stalemate
Selhurst goal-less
A pointless exercise
But a pleasant day
For South London bathers
In October’s lovely
Saturday of warmth and willingness
Not for the lack of trying
Then Everton’s Toffees
Chew the fat at Goodison
And emerge from early season’s
Stressful travails
Cherry picking through
The Bournemouth fields
A bumper harvest of three
To soothe the savage breast
Easy but never that easy
For demanding Evertonians
Then back at the Cottage
The thatched grandeur
By the River Thames
Fulham, plain sailing
Against the steely glare
Of Sheffield and its
United’s now blunt Blades
This could be a season
Of cutting comments
At Brammall Lane
At this stage
History is racing away
For Paul Heckingbottom
If omens are needed for
Sharper wits and survival
Then it has to turn
For this must be uncomfortable
Watching for those
Who have seen it all before
You fear the worst
But the season is still young
Meanwhile Old Trafford
Shakes off more August
And September rust
Manchester United slow
And sluggish out of the blocks
And in danger of sinking into
The stinking cesspit of struggle
Yesterday United sting
Brentford’s bees
Venomous in the dying embers
While the Hammers
Meet the Geordie Toon
Honours even
A score draw most welcome
In claret and blue hearths
While the Seagulls of Brighton
Find Klopp’s Liverpool
In generous mood
With yet another share of the spoils
Autumn in blue and white stripes
Crunching of leaves
By seaside serenity
And finally in the Midlands derby
Wolves and Villa
Clash over the garden fence
They must stop meeting like this
Draw of course the outcome
We sensed from a mile away
The Premier League
Now rests its weary limbs
For international break time
Yet again

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Another Premier League season

joe morris

Thursday, June 15th, 2023

Oh well that’s another
Premier League season tucked away
Into the cherished cupboards
Of yesteryear
Momentoes of the loveliest niche
Of our minds and senses
Etched into the essence
Of our soul and sentimental corner
Of our precious lives
Manchester City and West Ham
Crowned as European Champions
In their respective ways
City claiming the more
Prestigious of trophies
But the Hammers rightly
Elated by perhaps
A once in a lifetime experience
In historic Prague
Perhaps another moment
In the esteemed literature of
The game
Living in the future
It’s a mirage of possibility
But the cynics say
Never again
We’ll prove the doubters wrong
Europa League holders
Next season. Oh no
In the land of fantasy
And hyperbole
Perhaps,
Some Hans Christian Andersen
Anecdote where mystical myths
Will laugh heartily at claret
And blue ambitions
Shakespeare insisting
From the distance of time
Long, long ago
Per chance to dream
Claret and blue devotees
Just bathe in the luxuriant
Waters of a UEFA trophy
Champagne for breakfast,
Lunch and tea throughout
Summer’s beautiful days,
Nights, in perpetuity
And then there was City,
Treble top, 180,
Premier League, Champions League,
FA Cup, surrounded by baubles,
Exceptional in victories
In classical and valuable pearls
Diamond diadems, vastly impressive
Rewards for heartfelt exertions
There’s almost a lovely poignancy
About football’s emotional playground
When the defeats of the past
Could never be our lands of glory
And exultation
We hope to win one day
But then never do
So we mutter disconsolately
Dropping our heads and tears
Where nobody can see us
Relegation followed by
Promotion, childish laughter
Then adolescent awareness
Of jubilant evenings
When losses become history
And Declan Rice
Lifts that magnificent trophy
Everything is complete
Ribbons, bows and streamers
Glitter and confetti
Bus top parades
A giddy, dizzy cavalcade
A million cherries on the icing
Of that memorable cake
Pep does three times
And enduring smiles
Football, hey
What a game

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Gunners still lead from the front.

joe morris

Sunday, October 9th, 2022

Still the Gunners bring
Out the cavalry and infantry
A battalion of the battle hardened
Red blooded in method
And intent
Today rolling back
The years to Cup Finals
Of 1950 and 71
When Liverpool were
Professionally dealt with
By Arsenal
And beaten with a clip
Around Merseyside ears
But this evening
Beauty and disdain
Combining with rich
Magenta colours
Across the Emirates
Today, boldness in
Their hearts
Those first stirrings
Of sophistication
Coursing through their
Veins
Touches of class
Like the first issues
Of the King’s stamp
Arsenal top by a point
And Liverpool fumbling,
Stalling, not at any
Of the races at least
Two or three furlongs
Behind Anfield’s
Stumbling artisans
A gulf in quality
Wider than the Mersey
A long way to go though
Yet City still breathing
Down Arsenal’s necks
With yet more spit and polish
Over the Saints and Southampton
A thick coat of emulsion to
City’s liking
With stunning embellishments
Artistic bells and whistles
Worthy of exhibition
At the Tate or the
Portrait Gallery
Lovely sweeping motions
Of the transformative brush
Straight lines, cat’s cradle
Of passes intricately woven
Painterly patterns
Across the lush, autumnal
Green of the Etihad
Four more for City
Haaland only one this time
But still capable of more
Miracles of scoring
A phenomenon,
A blond Viking of a
Goal scorer
Goals galore
In his vast armoury
Now Newcastle
Hammer out five
Against the Bees
Of Brentford
Honeycombs in
West London soured
Slightly it has to be said
Geordies dancing though
To the Saudi sounds
Of billions of pounds
Resounding and bounding
Forward, at long last
Newcastle, now a ripe
Juicy fruit, full of
Pep and piquancy
Although without City’s Pep
Goals reaching St James Park
By the lorry load
Consignments of glad
Tidings, perhaps the corner
Has been turned
While today news
From the Palace is
That the Sunday monarchy
Is still in residence
Crystal Palace, full of
French verve and joie de vivre
Under Viera’s reign
Beat a Leeds where the
American dream of Jesse
Is but an optical illusion
At Stamford Bridge
The Potter is manipulating
His clay with stylish
Hands
Chelsea finding dash
And dexterity
This is a Bridge
Very much closer
To Graham’s liking
Wolves hounded and
Then terrified by
The Chelsea onslaught
From all sides
Three and it should
Have been much more
At the Amex
Spurs now blowing hot
And cold along the cooler
Sea fronts of Brighton
A win to North London
Satisfaction
But still on the outside
Looking in at the top
Conte, mourning the
Loss of his fitness coach
But uplifted by the only
Goal on the South Coast
Condolences to one and all
Further along the Southern tip
Of England
Bournemouth rejuvenated
After several hiccups and blips
Finding sanctuary of peace
Against hapless Leicester,
Foxes driven away by the
Smell of delectable Cherries
Gary O’Neill modest and quiet
Bournemouth, a gentle work in
Progress, content to be men
In the middle
Comfortable to be who they are
Everton meet United
It could be an evening to
Remember for North West
Highways and byways
Anything could happen at
Goodison and probably will
Local pecking orders
And noses pushed out of joint
Toffees and Red Devils
Locked in a vice
It could be a stale mate
Or a waterfall of goals
Pounding down from
On high
Or a tentative trickle
From the leakiest tap
We shall see

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