Football Poets

England versus Holland

¶ 1 Leave a comment on verse 1 0 It’s the big match tonight,
England and Holland for glory fight,
The crowd stands with a rapturous roar,
As the players from the tunnel pour.
Lining up for the ceremonial handshake,
The Nation’s passions duly awake,
Orange plumes rise from the Dutch,
As the players have their first touch.
The white roses cheer from sowed beds,
St. George’s flag, painted on their heads,
Lions fight against black lion,
As over the cross bar, the ball flies on.
A cross and a pass,
But neither have the class,
Chances taken but to no avail,
Who will be the heroes to hail?
Then a penalty is called,
Not given, the Edams are appalled,
One, two, go into the net,
Roses whither with defeatist sweat.
Half time to changing rooms they break,
Sven must lightening decisions make,
Telling them to pull up leaden socks,
In this stadium of Cocks.
Back on the pea green field,
Dreaming of goals yet to yield,
Fans seep into losing depression,
Only wanting a winning confession.
Where are our skilful heroes,
To banish these clementine foes?
Gone, seems to be the lions’ pride,
That’s needed for a winning side.
Now we’re the under dogs,
Loaded with left footed clogs,
Pondered passes, undirected kicks,
Not finding pace, the clock still clicks.
Is it over, our 5 match streak,
Must we turn an embarrassed cheek,
To live in a misery of shame,
Of losing this friendly game?
Will we ever again be number one?
As was in 1966, done,
Where is all our talent?
There’s none now that is apparent.
The final whistle venomously blows,
And dead is the hope of England’s rose,
Sad in the face of unfeeling defeat,
With the Dutch our match was not so sweet.
Orange writhes in saluted glory,
Seeded segments of this victorious story,
Citrus soiled London town,
Turned once more into Europe’s Pierot clown.
Savour your peerless win,
Remembering the gloriously sung din,
In time we’ll stroll nobly back,
Your defenders awed by our attack!

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