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Coming home from Stockport.

David Foulkes

Wednesday, March 19th, 2008

1 Leave a comment on verse 1 0 The striplights on the ceiling of the train.
Are driving me insane.
My now tubular brain
Is peering at the rain
On the window

2 Leave a comment on verse 2 0 My God its only Leeds.

3 Leave a comment on verse 3 0 If only someone was here to listen I would plead
That there’s nothing to even drink or read
If only my team wasn’t so out of form
Maybe I could get warm.

4 Leave a comment on verse 4 0 How I’m sick of thesel lips, my troublesome travelling twins
The bottom curls above the top
And won’t stop
Its his job to remind me
That money
Plot,
Sleep,
and points are lost,
Chapped and ugly.
Apparently,
the buffet shut early.

5 Leave a comment on verse 5 0 What will I tell myself in the morning?
What will I tell the taxi driver?
What will I tell my son in years to come?
About all these Tuesdays
The forgotten ones.

6 Leave a comment on verse 6 0 Defeat, and Wednesday’s miserable boozeless fridge at two and three AM,
Sitting in the silence of a council house waiting for the milkman.
My girl who owns the fridge has seen the score on Sky.
And the loving note she left informs “be quiet or you will die”.

7 Leave a comment on verse 7 0 Players
Money
NightClubs
Girls

8 Leave a comment on verse 8 0 I’ll take
Saturday’s hopeful fry-up
The smell of the washing, the humped-backed footbridge
It used to walk me up and serve Saturday
Like a favourite dinner,
Always different,
Always the same.

9 Leave a comment on verse 9 0 Now everybody talks iin quiche^s

10 Leave a comment on verse 10 0 “We couldn’t fault them for effort, sometimes you’ve just got to hold your hands up and say….”

11 Leave a comment on verse 11 0 Goodnight.

Source: http://footballpoets.org/poems/coming-home-from-stockport/?shared=email&msg=fail