Poems tagged ‘Thomas Tuchel’

Gone, but not forgotten

“One poem follows another”
Just like Haaland’s goals
But elsewhere the scores dry up
And another coach’s head rolls

And so it is
That tetchy Tuchel takes leave
But do mighty Chelsea
Have a handy replacement up their sleeve?

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Abridged Version.

Our…TT’s simply magnifique
Grasped the reins from Frank
Could have had it large at PSG?
But…they ain’t worth a franc
Another Wemberly tie awaits CFC
Implanted in our DNA
What a blinding sight, on a balmy night to see,
TT racing down the touch-line, sending City on their way!

Repeat n repeat n repeat!

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Mind Games.

Twenty minutes in
Sweet F.A happening
Their goal seemed unattainable at best?
Passing sideways, if not back
We couldn’t muster an attack
Till a mustard stroke put all a that to rest…

Diminutive figure leaves the bench,
“Ay, ay what’s all this then?”,
Purr’s I between sweet sips of Yorkshire Tea?
The simple act of warming-up a sub
Caused startled cherubs on the mud
To quickly get their derrieres’, in gear a.s.a.p.

A deflection, then a pen
Our mojo back again
I could hear our Thomy, pleading on the night,
“Oi Timo, you know that white rectangle is a goal?
Oh, und just confirm when you’ve a mo,
You’ve sussed out which is left und what is right?”

Absolutely flying at the finish
We might have won by five or six
If fortune deemed the cards should fall our way?
Hakim Ziyech didn’t grace the field that day
Yet from the touch-line tis fair to say…
He played his part, although he didn’t actually play!


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Time For A Change.

Honeymoon over, done ‘n dusted
Our first eleven proper mustard
Compared to dire performances of before
Proverbial writing on the wall
An icon, lost sight of the spherical
Sorry son, on your way out…shut the door.

Finally, the unwritten code is broken
Out there in plain sight, in the open
Under scrutiny in the real World, fans inhabit?
He didn’t have the chutzpah did he
Well if, I thought in admiration via B.T,
There’s a prize for being visionary, we’ll ‘ave it?

Three smug post-match ex-pros
On a late-night football show
Agreed, that isn’t how we do things here
After all, does he really need
To instigate a frenzied media feed?
Why not just have a quiet word in his ear?

Listening in, I had to bite my tongue
At their stance our gaffer should stay shtum,
The credit column of their managerial yield?
Admiring an angry kick at a bottle of water
By a winger, had he performed as ordered
Might well still be out there on the field?

What goes on in the dressing room…
Swept away by a stiff new broom
Irrespective of the personal gain or loss
Have the days of player power
Been scrutinized, toyed with, devoured
By a simple one act drama, I’m The Boss?

The new normal will soon come
Akin to rays of soothing Summer sun
We’ll bask again in a football club’s hub bub
While over in London South West Six
A few rich derrieres have begun to twitch
After witnessing Thomy Tuchel tug the sub.*

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Business Model. (For Marina)

Re-hired, then fired, The Special One
Told, Frankie Lampard, “Sorry son
Come in, collect ya cards, be on yer way”
A brooding bawling Conte met his match
Packed off home, tin-tacked, dispatched
To do his highly coiffured nut in Serie A.

Us fans don’t like some deals she done
Till the heady elixir of…having won
Washes any trace of divided doubt away
After all, to win is not the only thing
To win is…the bleating everything
Ask any fan, post-match, on any Saturday?

Could have hired practically anyone
But, winning here and now, ain’t how it’s done?
New gaffer needs some time to find his feet?
Our business model scoffs aloud at this
Success, winnings become a mega business
I’ve yet to see a losing fan-dance down the street?

Franks loyal old muckers, to a man
Talk: being given time, the bigger plan
Utter balderdash is what you’re spouting chaps
Our man’s plans clearly all at sea
On telly for die-hard Blues to grimace at, and see
No more so, than in the recent Leicester match.

Marina purred, “Enough, enough
Can’t sit here, and watch such dire stuff
That time has come again, when I must act
Our Frankie clearly hasn’t got a clue
How to change things round or what to do
If his game plan should body-swerve off track?”.

Nicked four points, in our last two games
Revitalized a few old angsty frames
To pulling on the shirt, the slate wiped clean
Training grounds awash in smiles
There’s cheering fills the empty aisles
From our subs, not out there toiling on the green.

Yes! Marina comes up trumps again
Finding a name to compete and play the game
Of winning matches, when right now there’s little else,
Who cares whom got the old tin-tack?
We’re off the sofa, soaring, scoring, back on track?
Thank You Marina, for taking Thomy* Tuchel to Chels!


Stay sage. Bode well.

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Source: http://footballpoets.org/news/poem-tags/thomas-tuchel/