Poetry Archives
This archive contains every poem that has been published on Football Poets. They are listed ten-per-page in reverse chronological order so the most recent poems appear first. Click or tap the arrows in the corners of the page to navigate between pages. It's easier to use the search form below to find a specific poem.
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Southampton relegated – and two more.
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
My Dad…Footy In The Park
I was told this today, of which I wasn’t aware.
Liverpool’s Croxteth Park, my Dad went there!
With his Niece Janet, my Dad went to play.
To think, I was in Croxteth Park the other day!
They played football together, chasing the ball.
My Dad made Janet aware, football was for all!
As that wasn’t always the case, way back then.
And Janet still loves footy thanks to ‘Uncle Len’
I can imagine Dad and Janet playing their game.
And in the background the fantastic mini train!
I rode on that mini train track a few days ago.
I wonder if Dad saw me from Heaven, I hope so!
I never got to play footy with him, yes that’s sad.
But that doesn’t mean, I don’t love Len my Dad.
(I never knew my Dad, but after posting a poem on Facebook about my trip to Croxteth Park in Liverpool a distant relative messaged me to say that my Dad (her Uncle Len) took her to the very same park, this would be the mid 60’s I guess)
‘Power Is Off…So Coates On’ !!
In Season 65/66…in came a new law.
It changed English footy for evermore.
If an injured player could no longer play.
A substitute player could ‘enter the fray’
Barrow’s Bobby Knox, in this new role.
Was the first ever sub to score a goal!
He was also the first sub to save a pen.
2 pieces of history, he made back then!
The rules changed the following season.
Subs could be made for a tactical reason.
Managers could change an in game plan.
So a vital player became the ’12th man’.
We had a ‘super sub’ Fairclough his name.
A Kop hero, after that St Etienne game!
He came on late, a winning goal to score.
Davey’s goal went down in LFC folklore!
From 1 sub, sitting on the bench alone.
Gradually to 5, that number has grown.
In 3 ‘windows’ those subs can be made.
For each change, added time to be played.
‘Concussion Subs’, came about in 2023.
This new law was pushed for by the IFAB.
Players welfare was brought to the fore.
This proved a much needed, vital new law.
I’ll finish this poem, in a humorous way.
This was heard over the Macclesfield PA.
‘Substitution…Power is off, so Coates on’!
The best sub announcement ever, bar none!!
The old days again
There used to be a time when
Two points for a win
Meant pleasure personified
At 5.00 on Saturday afternoon
When Pools coupons represented
Eight draws and
Satisfaction guaranteed
And James Alexander Gordon
Held fate and destiny in his hand
When the world seemed to stop
Spinning on its axis
Since at last we’d hit the jackpot
And mountains of thousands of pounds
Would be winging its way towards
Your hearth and home
And football was the greatest game
We’d ever known
Strikers were centre forwards
Half backs and inside rights or
Lefts, whatever your preference
Ran themselves into the ground
Like industrious dray horses
Ploughing their furrow
On any given day
When football was played with
Medicine balls designed
To break any part of your anatomy
Be it head, feet or fingers and thumbs
And the factory gate would moan and groan
All out brothers, dads, grandsons and
Grandpa.
Chase that bus or train
Look sharpish
We’ve only got five minutes
The terraces will be heaving
Seething, believing
Gallows humour, cynical
Sceptical and why do
We do this to ourselves
Punishing our souls and senses
United will simply thrash us
Battering us into submission
Never mind son or daughter
We’ll always love you
Regardless of the score
Football was never meant
To be seriously
It was only a game
And besides mum’s made
Egg and chips
And that steaming mug of tea
Warm reassurance and consolation
Amid the jaws of adversity
Threatened our serenity
And yet hold on
Football loves its resounding wins
Home and away
Those red raw cheeks
On a wintry Saturday afternoon
Young kids chattering, clattering
And clapping thunderously
Beating the advertising hoardings
And the alphabet half time
And full time results
For all its worth
For this was football’s
Purest democracy
Unchallenged by time
Rattles rattling to the dulcet tones
Of well oiled voices
Come on you Spurs, Chelsea, Liverpool
the Manchesters United and City
There’s only one Arsenal and Spurs
50,000 or 60,000 squeezed together
Into the ultimate confinement of spaces
Jammed solid, no more room to move
Shove over mate,
The terraces are now breathing
And finally the referee
Blows that official whistle
And the game proceeds as
It always has done
Spluttering and stuttering into
Life since this is an end of season game
That demoralising
Anti climax
And nothing depends on it
Voices now muted and subdued
Since relegation is more or
Less settled, time to put the
Kettle on mum because
We’re going down
And resigned to the inevitable
Or maybe Liverpool will win
The League once again
Hold on, I’ve lost count
Since maths becomes irrelevant
But come August
We’ll do the same thing
For the umpteenth time
Since the fans would demand
Nothing less
The sweetest nectar of victory
And a promotion push this year
It has to be
Trophies galore you feel sure
It’s our turn, our time
Forget about the past
The emptiness of one season
After another
Without anything to show
Come May bank holiday
We’ll be doing a lap of honour
Around our ground
Rain or shine
You bet we will
Telstar Football
Look at me
in my thirty-two panels
designed for touch
and to be more magical.
My hexagon and perfection
pentagons
have made me a black-and-white
football icon.
So, get me over
the jumping wall
caress my inner
rubber soul.
Let me feel
the onion bag catch
primal horde roar
and devotion to match.
Gotta Support Somebody
You may be a miner working down a pit.
You may be a rock star playing sold out gigs.
You may be a fireman putting out a blaze.
You may be an inmate chalking off the days.
But you gotta support somebody.
Yeah, you gotta support somebody.
It may be the Toffees, or it may be the Reds,
But you gotta support somebody.
You may be a gardener mowing people’s lawns.
You may be a midwife helping babes get born.
You may be a shop girl sitting at the till.
You may be a doctor trying to cure the ill.
But you oughtta support somebody.
Yeah, you oughtta support somebody.
It may be the Devils, or it may be the Saints,
But you oughtta support somebody.
You may be a tinker, you may be a tailor.
You may be a soldier, you may be a sailor.
You may be a beggarman, you may be a thief.
You may be a joker, who can’t git no relief.
But you haveta support somebody.
Yeah, you haveta support somebody.
It may be the Robins, it may be the Owls,
But you haveta support somebody.
Early on in life, you must choose your Team.
Then make sure you stick with them,
Yes, through thick and thin.
You should not be fickle, do not chop and change.
Follow them when you’re a kid and at a ripe old age.
You needta support somebody.
Yeah, you needta support somebody.
It may be the Yellows, it may be the Greens,
But you needta support somebody.
It could be the Pilgrims, it could be the Potters.
It could be the Tractor Boys, it could be the Trotters.
It could be the Hornets, it could be the Hatters.
Could be any Club you like, doesn’t really matter.
But you better support somebody.
Yeah, you better support somebody.
It might be the Brewers, it might be the Blades,
But you better support somebody.
You can call me Denys, or you can call me Den.
You can call me Edward, or William now and then.
Or maybe by my surname, which, as you know, is Jones,
But if you support someone, you’ll never be alone.
2/4/25
Denys E. W. Jones
Anyone Who Had A Heart (Amazing Panorama Kop footage 1964)
The Kop cover The Beatles and Cilla Black.
Give me a time machine, I wanna go back!
The accent is one, the accent is scouse.
Not a tourist to be seen in the house!
Working class scousers, together as one.
The game was stolen from us, forever gone.
As now we’re not welcome, told were to go.
Half and half scarves?…I don’t think so!
Red and white Kop passion, a sense of pride.
An amazing atmosphere, long since died.
Shankly was our King, and in us he saw him.
We were made for each other…born to win!
I was a loyal Kopite, part of its heyday.
Then filthy money came and took it all away.
Tourists bring in the cash by the shed load.
Poorer fans snubbed with a local postcode.
The ups and downs of a score draw
Howl a tribal scream
Feel like a mighty mountain
The net bulged for us!
Groan of anguished soul
Seared heart plunges to cold feet
The net bulged for them…
Newcastle, Newcastle
So the Geordie boys have done it
Finally, at long last
Climbing aboard the winners
Victorious podium
Acclaimed Carabao Cup winners
We feared it would never happen
Ever again
Rejected, snubbed and denounced
Mocked and locked out
After 70 years of striving
And scuffling, agonising
Over and over again
Not a single trophy to
Claim as their own
But now it’s happened
Just desserts
Justice is seen to be done
Revenge for 1974
When Liverpool owned the show
And delivered that
Devastating blow
When Kevin Keegan and John Toshack
In a grand striking collaboration
Laid waste to Joe Harvey’s Newcastle
Were demolished by a red tidal wave
51 years later and the sea shore is kinder
It’s away the lads
And the world becomes black and white
Not so monochrome now
But a Cup in their hands
Not the jug eared one
Of FA Cup denomination
But Hardaker’s old League Cup
Still, in the perception of some
Charming fruit bowl
Adorned with football ribbons
And then Dan Burn leaps like
The proverbial salmon
And heads home
The winner
Oh yes that’ll do
Nothing remotely fishy
Or suspicious about that one
Ignore VAR perfectly legit
A golden amber sunset
Flickers gloriously into view
Shimmering seductively on
The Wembley horizon
Tyneside will celebrate for
The next 70 years
Be sure, it will
The neutral salutes you
Newcastle, after all
Those buried hands and
Tantalising teeth gnashing
Melancholy by the Fog of the Tyne
Gazza’s tears and tomfoolery
Brown ale now the sweetest Chianti
Hilarity and smiles wreathing
The St James Park terraces
Gleaming garlands of glad tidings
Ant and Dec besides themselves
Hugging each other
And everything in sight
Celebrations with strangers
Wembley becomes a Geordie haven
North London morphs into North East
And then Alan Shearer
Who was one of their own
Lights up like a flash bulb
No more sepia tinted memories
Of Wor Jackie Milburn,
Bobby Mitchell and the Robledo brothers
Supermac Malcolm Macdonald
Sulking and skulking away
In 1974 after threatening to
Take Liverpool to the cleaners
Oh no, – not now
Newcastle reincarnated, reborn
Back on the map
Recovery and recuperation complete
No more wandering in the wilderness
It’s Newcastle, Newcastle
Newcastle Newcastle
They’ve done it, you know
Champagne by the crate
It’s a trophy
And how we know it.
Where’s Our Famous Atmosphere?
The old Kop I loved as a young fan.
26 thousand Reds in a sardine can!
I started out in the lofty Boys Pen.
Along with lots of middle aged men!
But in 71’ a full time Kopite I became.
Liverpool v Forest, was my first game.
To the sound of The Spion Kop roars.
My hero Keegan, scored early doors!
St Etienne in 77’ the highlight for me.
To get in, I queued up from half past 3!
Under the Anfield lights, what a night.
The Kop in full glory, an amazing sight!
Fairclough left their defence in its wake.
A difficult chance, with ease he did take!
It was bedlam when that 3rd goal went in.
As that was the goal that sealed our win!
As our ‘12th man’ The Kop was known.
Our players never felt they were alone.
When we cranked up the pressure and heat.
Teams would often crumble to defeat!
So…fast forward to nearly 50 years on.
Where’s our famous atmosphere gone?
Local fans priced out, is mostly to blame.
Mates standing together at every game.
Footy has reverted to a middle class affair.
It’s too costly now, but owners don’t care.
I miss those days, neath the old kop roof.
Am I just living in the past, is that the truth?
Can we turn back the clock, don’t think so?
The game lost many diehard fans, years ago.
A tourist attraction, has become The Kop.
It’s just an extension to our souvenir shop.
The Kop brings in fans from far and wide.
The Anfield tills ring, but it’s hushed inside.
Likewise, famous terraces all over the land.
It’s a problem club owners, don’t understand.
About This Site
Welcome to Football Poets -- a club for all football poets, lovers of football and lovers of (alternative) poetry. Discover poets in every league from respected internationals at the top of their game to young hopefuls in the school playground.
Publish your football poems here and then discuss them with your team mates and fans. We're archived by The British Library, so your masterpieces are in the safe hands of a world-class keeper. What a result!
My Account
Latest Poems
joe morris
12th April 2025
Mike Bartram
10th April 2025
Mike Bartram
8th April 2025
joe morris
4th April 2025
John Gilbert Ellis
3rd April 2025
Denys E. W. Jones
2nd April 2025
Mike Bartram
1st April 2025
Beth Rogers
31st March 2025
joe morris
21st March 2025
Mike Bartram
20th March 2025
Crispin’s Corner
In Memoriam
Kick It Out & Christmas Truce
Latest Comments
8th March 2025 at 2:34 pm
Thanks Crispin
I’ve been to FGR a couple of times in the past – great food! Barnet look like they have the NL sewn up for this season, but I wish you well for promotion next season.
Regards, Beth
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11th January 2025 at 8:13 am
TO ADD THIS TO THIS POEM’S COMMENT:WELCOME BACK DAVID MOYES!!!
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27th November 2024 at 5:55 am
‘You’re Supposed To Be At Home’ is an excellent and moving poem Denys.
You start off thinking it’s just about another oft-sung chant, one we personally heard a lot last season throughout our second relegation in a row here at Forest Green(FGR) ! I always love poems where you think they are saying one thing and then they suddenly pull you deeper to somewhere or something else else.
I’m currently helping in a local school for FGR in a voluntary capacity using football to help young students with reading. At an upcoming session we will tackle racism, just like we did in workshops at football schools and grounds when we first started this site 24 years ago. I’m gonna try and weave your poem into a session.
We’ve added it to the Anti- Racism/Kick It Out section under Crispin’s Corner.
Best C
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26th November 2024 at 1:59 pm
Great poem and great to see you back Wyn.
Don’t leave it so long next time my friend!
More please.
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13th September 2024 at 6:14 pm
Welcome to Football Poets Beth
Great evocative poem Beth….
More please !
Haiku always welcome.
Hope we (FGR) get to play you again soon
Best
Crispin
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26th July 2024 at 6:25 pm
Great poem Mike Bartram. Eddie was a legend, affectionately known in Liverpool as, “the first hooligan.” Even the hoolies were well dressed in those days. The amazing thing was he was only 26 when that picture was taken. He’d played for Everton youth team and was well known to the players. He never got arrested. They threw him out and he climbed back in, just in time for Derek Temples winner.
I used the picture of him being tackled to the ground on the front cover of my book, “Once Upon a rhyme in Football.” It’s worth looking on youtube and finding the re-enactment of the Wembley scene. Frank Skinner and Baddiel went around to Eddies home in the 1990’s and acted it out on the green outside. It’s hilarious, especially all the effort they put in to get Eddie sober enough to shoot the scene.
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10th July 2024 at 6:07 pm
Hi Crispin,
I don’t know if you’ve see the picture in social media today…
a picture of a teenage Lionel Messi cradling a baby in Africa as part of a photoshoot…. the family had won a lottery to have their baby pictured with him….
the photographer has just revealed that the baby is actually in fact Lamine Yamal!!!!
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26th May 2024 at 2:30 pm
Hi Denys…
Re Man City:
OK it was 20 years ago but Criag Wilson did write this and a few others on them back in 04/05.
BTW I’m more Forest Green Rover since 2014 (and Chelsea) these days . I drum and am a standing season ticket holder.
Best
Crispin
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29th April 2024 at 2:47 pm
Hi Denys,
Yes Richard Williams you’re a brilliant wordsmith, my friend. When I first saw your football poetry I thought it was the superb Guardian sports and music writer. I once had the honour of sitting next to Richard Williams while at the Independent on the sports desk. He writes about music and sport with immense knowledge and authority. I’ve read a couple of Richard’s books recently. Great writer rather like you Richard Williams the Pompey fan. Congratulations on promotion.
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