Some poets treat of lofty themes,
Like Love, Desire and Hate.
Of sour, dashed hopes and broken dreams,
Of hearts that pine and wait.
There’s bards that brood on graves and tombs,
On bones and food for worms.
On grim-faced Death, our Common Doom,
And even Grecian Urns.
And some tell of the passing year,
Of Summer, Winter, Spring.
The highs and lows, the swings in mood
Each changing Season brings.
‘Tis they that do of rosebuds sing,
Of hay and wilting flowers.
Of youth’s fresh hue, of morning dew,
And April’s short-lived showers.
Still others make their subject War:
Swords, guns, smoke, guts and blood.
The heroes or white-liver’d funks,
The trenches, gas and mud.
And certain wracked, tormented souls,
They end up half-insane,
Through wailing on Life’s bitter woes,
Age, Sickness, Loss and Pain.
But if our Output you peruse,
You’ll seek such stuff in vain.
The Round Ball is our only Muse,
We’ve Footie on the brain!
The plastic-coated leathern sphere
Is what grabs our attention.
We cover every aspect of the Game
You care to mention.
Yet just below the surface delve,
You’ll find as much emotion
As in the works of Keats or Yeats,
Of Dickinson or…Motion.
So, look sharp, log on to our Site,
Get clicking one and all.
In time you too may learn to love
Our paens to football…
Denys E. W. Jones