Football Poets

Don’t stop West Ham

¶ 1 Leave a comment on verse 1 0 Oh no we knew this would happen
You feared the worst
That hunch,
The crashing
Thump of
Premonition
An earth shattering
Fall from visibility
Shattered shards of once
Colourful mosaic
Now no more
Than optical illusions
Where once there
Was gold, now bronze
Would do nicely
West Ham
Fizzling out
And running
Out of steam
Claret and blue
Losing its fine
Bouquet
The grapes of
Pungent flavours
And vintage
Fragrances now
Turning ever so
Sour for the moment
Held to a draw
By Newcastle’s
Relegation battlers
Defiant where before
They might have been
Cowardly and submissive
Settling for second best
But not now
Since the Hammers
Have taken their pedal
Off their once
Streamlined motor
And the preposterous
Idea of a Champions
League finish
Has been laughed and
Chuckled into some
Hollywood studio
Factory, no more
Than some comical
Rumour with
Nothing of any
Substance
That has any
Legal claim
To reality,
Just a charade
Of the farcical
Rumour
It was always
Destined to
Be
Craig Dawson
Planted a decisive
Lead with a knowing
Head
But then the
Multi millions
Of Newcastle’s
Black and white
Vast aristocracy
Displayed the
Fulsome obscenity
Of wealth, Fraser
But not Private
From Dad’s Army
Challenging the
Claret and blue
Battalions with
Tireless scurrying
While Jo Shelvey
A native of East
End charms
Essex in his blood
But now of Geordie
Accents and mannerisms
Stylish at times
With maybe a point
To prove
West Ham in his heart
But never on his sleeve
Yet today was the day
The Hammers were
Dulled by thieving
Magpies, stealing
The thunder and
Well prepared
Script,
Newcastle at peace
With themselves
Clear as clarity
Itself in mind
And thought
Liberated from
Apprehensive
Mind sets
Nervous as
Protagonists
On the first
Night
Making sure that
No more lines
Are fluffed
Eddie Howe
Who once
Brought bracing
Invigorating airs
To Bournemouth’s
Seat of seaside
Education
Wears the
Newcastle
Mantle,
Time to roll
Up the sleeves
Of heavy industry
In those fanatical
Hordes
At the Gallowgate
End, where trophies
Are now demanded now
Tonight just before the
News at Ten rather than
Some far off hinterland
Where only torrential
Monsoons of disappointment
May lie ahead
Newcastle want now
Not the immediate future
No idle curiosities, wild
Speculation, just the
Premier League trophy
With their tea and toast
On Sunday morning
Without fail
Black and white
Stripes, world
Domination, an
Immensity of
Premier League
Frequency
Always kissing the
Champions League
Award ceremony
Winners always
Acclaimed and lionised,
By kings, queens and prime
Ministers, leaders of
The free world
The greatest thing
Since sliced bread
For West Ham
Though this is a
Moment of harsh,
Grating and metallic
Anti climax
Of brooding,
Stuttering reflection
Just enough petrol
In the tank
But surely no
Champions League
Top four contenders
Content with more
Modest gifts
Rather than the
Rock of delusional
Grandiosity
Or stop the season
Now

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