Football Poets

Premier League end of season ups and downs

It’s the most spectacular finish
To any Premier League season
For quite a while
City and Liverpool like
Feuding neighbours
But high spirited bonhomie
It is only a game after all
Jurgen Klopp’s band of
Showboating Cavaliers
Certainly not Roundheads
Record breaking winners of
The Premier League or First
Division whatever your interpretation
Only Manchester United on the same level
But Newcastle sailing in serenity of placid
Mid table safety
And yet at the top of the Premier League
The Wild West warriors have galloped into
Town with bourbon in their first thirsts
It’s the Last Chance Saloon
For those in anguish at the bottom
And tremors of excitement in
The furnace of Champions League
and Europa League contention
Yee ha. We can hardly bare the
The ifs and buts, the complex permutations of it all.
The trials and tribulations,
The glowering disaster themes, the joyous
Coronations and crowns,
The relegation and promotion soap operas
Managers with faces like thunder, folding arms
Jumping ecstatically up and down
Then running nervous fingers down the spine
Of survival and champions elect
Jurgen Klopp, bearded and very pleased with life
On the Geordie coasts and peninsulas
Mo Salah still running at the speed of sound
Liverpool champing at the bit, it could be
Another season to remember at Anfield
Since Shanks and Bob Paisley are still gazing
Down judgmentally from the heavens
With analytical eyes, pride bursting from
Chests that once took deep breaths
Then there’s Manchester City, the other contenders
Overcoming the street entertainers who were once
Marco Biesla’s Leeds at Elland Road
Not entirely out of the muck and bullets
The grim spectre of relegation, the grisly
And gruesome trench warfare at the bottom
Meanwhile Spurs repeat the the 1961 FA Cup Final
When the first shades of greatness fell across
White Hart Lane, When Blanchflower, Dyson, White,
Mackay and Greaves were about to leave their golden
Footprints across the green industrial lands of one side
Of North London. Spurs get the better of Leicester
Who may still be lamenting the loss of Richard The Third
In Leicester car parks
And yet the Foxes once crept out of the darkened
Forests of anonymity to win the Premier League
And now their season is safe.
Noisy neighbours Arsenal and Spurs holding late night raves
Disputing territory, dancing the night away
Too many petty grudges, recriminations galore, post match
Inquests. You’ll have to resolve your differences,
North London angst and altercation
Local derbies, full of needle, niggle
It still seems too baffling for anybody’s comprehension
Yet as the Premier League
Fades into the night, revelry unconfined
But indecision rules in North London, yet
Turn down the raucous noise please
It’s intolerable and unbearable at times
Some of us are trying to get some sleep
The volume is far too high, those anguished acoustics
For those who may be dreaming of their day
In the sun
Villa, for their part, are sailing into mid table serenity
The sun sinking on their season like a bronze gold medal
Steven Gerrard with a mischievous glint in his eye
He could present his childhood Liverpool with another
Premier League title at the conclusion of another
Tantalisingly brilliant and tumultuous season
This is proving far too much excitement for those
Of a neutral position,
Villa rubber stamping Norwich’s relegation to the
Championship,
After all those rumbles of agricultural Norfolk
Combine harvesters when the produce had so
Much nutritious potential for the Carrow Road
Regulars, it all comes crashing down to earth
Again for Delia and her upstanding and
Gastronomic chefs of quality for Norwich
Simply can’t make up their mind
Neither the top flight or the old Second Division
Tortured emotions for those of a yellow and green
Hue. What on earth would John Bond have made of
This current production of under achievers
And woebegone souls who were never likely
To be the stars of any Norwich future,
Oh the crying shame
Southampton meet in similar circumstances
Where only the Palace can still stand in
Royal detachment from the rest of the family
Who wave from the balcony,
Trapped in the middle
Saints and Eagles, comfortable allies
In mid table mediocrity, some of us are
Conditioned to that feeling in the East End
Discussion rooms of West Ham,
Where the light winds become ferocious gale forces
But not this year
Since Arsenal once again rule the roost
Over the Hammers, 1980 Cup Finals
Are now sepia tinted documents
Rather like those 16th century maps of London
Of topical yesteryears
Barely visible landmarks
And now no more than a memory
Sad and woebegone
Hammers thinking of German
Battlefields of Frankfurt
Everton, still fighting for their lives
Doughty campaigners
Relegation unthinkable of course
But the Goodison flames are still flickering
Remarkably, the Chelsea bandwagon
Stalled, brought to a juddering halt
Tomas Tuchel’s footballing tumblers
And acrobats, exhibitionists
No longer parading their sequins and
frills. Not so much the dandies
Or fashionistas, more the trend setters
Roman has gone, empire ended
By the greed and avarice of those
Who only thought of money
And financial gain
And yet Chelsea, still in the hunt
For Champions League validation
And confirmation. Or certainly
Somewhere in Europe
Back in Hertfordshire where
The sleepy suburbs can only
Wonder when Watford will
Ever find their Premier League feet
Again, demotion again to the Championship
Or seemingly so
Roy Hodgson fetching in spring sun glasses
The best of all coaches and motivators
But Watford are perhaps a bridge too far
Keep smiling Roy.
Wolves come unstuck against the seaside
Travellers of Brighton, Graham is very
Much an artistic Potter
And of course Manchester City
Financially influenced by Saudi affluence
Sultans of swing
And Premier League baubles
Yet again or maybe not
Leeds still teetering on relegation
Precipices but maybe inspired
By memories of the Don
Don Revie,
When football observers
Were polarised by their genius
Their flaws and foibles
Surely Elland Road though, will breathe
A sigh of relief come season’s end
But Premier League fortunes
Can be so fickle. It’s all very finger
Nail biting, a boiling pressure cooker of uncertainty
And turmoil, the hot fires of tension
It could go to the final minute
Of the final whistle
Which is why football
Claims the rightful title
Of the Beautiful Game

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