Football Poets

Premier League final stages

Premier League final stages
Wow. This Premier League title race
Really does seem to be
A delicious hot pot of
Intriguing stats and fine margins
A meat stew of succulent flavours
Gristle and bone, served with sauces
And seasonings, beef like butter
In the salivating mouth
Too appetising for words
Destined to go to the wire
Liverpool and Manchester City
Locked in a tug of war
Pedigree thoroughbreds
Neither with a vice grip
On the trophy since
This could go down to the final
Sunday, when the vicar will
Have to pass around the communion wafer
And take a half time break
The congregation must hold their breath
Even the stained glass windows are becoming
Too steamed up and dripping with condensation
The excitement, felt, touched, clutched
From the heart,
The pews and the parishioners
Must have heard the Anfield roar
And the Etihad eruption of classic
Cacophony, strike those cymbals
Bang the drum, a soaring symphony
Of wills, stamina, chaotic colours
Sounds of joy, the neutrals
Among us are revelling in this
Stunning sounds
A clap of thunder again in red and light
Blue skies
At the Emirates, Arsenal
Are back in the first class economy suite
Of the Premier League’s top six
Arteta’s North London aristocrats
Are brushing up their etiquette
Observing all the protocols
Yesterday word perfect, verbs
And consonants, pronouns
Ralf Rangnick, caretaker in charge
At Manchester United
But yesterday resembling a man
With a mop and bucket who forgets
To lock up the school gates
United, sadly going nowhere
And blasted into the North London orbit
Beaten comprehensively, thrashed
Out of sight.
What on earth would Sir Alex
Make of this farcical charade
This parody of United, a feeble
Caricature of Bestie, Law and Charlton
Dennis and Bobby gritting incensed teeth
Georgie might have left Old Trafford
After half an hour
But the 21st century Emirates
Leaves modern United dumbfounded
Scrambled thoughts, where to go next
A goal less draw at Brentford
Thoughts turn to beaches and promenades
Where buckets, spades and tequillas
In Mediterranean bars
Are being chilled to massaged players
Egos in Premier League end of season
Leisure centres of excellence
Spurs crowded out, stifled, stopped
In their tracks. Out of the running
For Champions League tete a tetes
Meetings next season, perhaps
At the table of Real and Atletico Madrids
And the Milans of Inter and AC
But those discussion tables are still
Humming. Spurs are now in heavy traffic
Stuck in wars of attrition with
Noisy neighbours the Gooners
Now in the driving seat but
None of us know where this journey
May take us.
Tottenham slipping on greasy poles
Realistically not, now
The Bees had several jars of honey
Weeks ago
The season is now in its last throws of
The dice
At the King Power the Midland
Powerhouses of Leicester and Villa
Also settle for spring, sleepy and soporific
Goal-less draw, if only they’d given
Them a mattress, a blanket and a cup of cocoa
Dullness in dire need of a cup of espresso,
The stimulus of the hair of the dog,
The wake up call of a black coffee
Spare us the indignity Villa and Leicester
Of any more local derbies
Head for the warming, summer coasts
And of course City, a force of nature
Lithe as Olympic gymnasts, Supple of
Loose limbed
Movement, flexible as trapeze artists,
Always glorious, exquisite touch masters
Watford just blown away in a gale of
Passing winds that may now be resigned
To another season in the Championship
Take five and take a bow, City.
Finally Norwich fens and farmlands
About to be swamped into the land
Of nowhere, combine harvesters
Driving over yellow and green plots of land
Surely relegation but maybe Delia
Has some tasty recipes to warm the cockles
Heartening pies with plenty of gravy for
The Carrow Road faithful
Resigned to the worst but their
Day will return

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