A Football Poet’s Bootroom
¶ 1
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Now that’s the job for me
In praise of Bob and Liverpool
Of all things Shankly
¶ 2
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A job well Donne the chants declare
For Dalglish rules supreme
A Prince among the terrace Kop
The people and their King
¶ 3
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The boots wrapped up in lyrics
Whilst the goals would gleam with rhyme
Oranges not the only fruit
Especially at half time
¶ 4
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So pass the poets’ toolkit
With its magic sponge of words
To score acrostic wisdom
Not in vitriol but verse.
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