Football Poets

Arthur Bright

¶ 1 Leave a comment on verse 1 0 In a dim lit alley a wanderer lies asleep
He cares not for the world or the people it keeps
Just the clothes that he wears and his cardboard box
The rats that scuffle and the peeping fox
London is his town, his very own home
Creeping from street to street all alone
A stranger by day and a menace by night
Smoking a fag while his lager gets light
Scraping together what food he can
For what little his life has left to span
But deep deep down inside his mind
Is a different place where he can hide
Memories of years and a past gone by
The imagination wild and a tear in his eye
But who was he and does anyone care?
How the man in the alley came to be spare?
He tells his tales but nobody listens
Talking endlessly till the morning dew glistens
Stories of how he used to be
The focus and centre of the community
Thousands pass him throughout the day
They used to cheer and handsomely pay
But that was a different time’ he cries
How things have changed in years gone by
Every Saturday the shadow makes a trip
From Oxford Circus to the South for a kip
Over the river and down to the blue
He’s nearly there he’s nearly through
It’s a task at his age and with a dodgy leg
A past profession will see him ache till death
Even though he’s as fit as a fiddle
He’ll smile throughout and you’ll hear a giggle
From that moment on you’ll wonder
Just who is the giggling wanderer?
It’s a bit of a secret but I’ll tell you who
The man with a limp, one slipper, one shoe
He’s from an era not too far away
Yet the glory he had he paid his dues
Does the name Arthur Bright
Make you shiver and think of a sight?
A thirty year old with flair and speed
A sportsman with a keen eye for trees
He didn’t stand for messin’ nor mucking about
Straight through he’d go making thousands cry
Delighted with skill and a fantastic result
People would chant his name out loud all night!
But that was a world away from here and now
As his story stops and he wipes his brow
Whilst the old man is content with his fate
He often wonders if he was born early or late
As he reads the headlines of his latest sheets
Sees moves a plenty and million pound deals
Scantily dressed models and fancy wheels
Keys to a mansion invites to posh’ parties
Dressed to impress, all high and mighty
It’s a world away from what he used to know
Cycled to work to earn what he’d later bestow
Wore a flat cap and cycled to work
Yet he never complained for it was a perk
To turn up and play like a little boy
Fill thousands of people’s hearts with joy
It was a dream come true for Bright
Till he was discarded and put out of sight
So when you moan and kick up a fuss
Complain at leisure and run out of luck
Think of all those still living the dream
Once a part of your very own team
Walk down the alley and talk to the man
Ask him his story and offer a hand
Look into his eyes and let him know you care
That’s if you’re not too shallow to dare
For there are many unnamed who need to be thanked
For bringing us pleasure and walking the plank
For his was a generation of simple dreams
Before money sewed its evil seams
The next time you have a few minutes free
Look down upon the field of dreams
Let your mind roam back many a year
Where men played for kicks and showed no fear
Ear rings were for women and dives for water
All dirty fouls and swearing for starters
Please join with me in one last holler
Thanks for the passion dear old Arthur Bright

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