Eulogy For A Football Poet
¶ 1
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He wasn’t the brightest
This much is sure,
But even the slightest word
From him was pure.
As far as I know,
No allegiance to club,
Just the Game . . . that he watched
At the ground, in the pub,
As he scowled and he studied,
While in real time translated,
As waters once muddied
Were cleared while we waited.
He loved it. We loved him.
He spoke for the Game.
Not for the money.
Not for the fame.
He sang what he felt.
Here was no slave to rhyme.
So the odd word’s misspelt;
So a beat’s out of time.
He owned what Springsteen
Once called the “honest stand.”
See, he wrote about things
He had witnessed first hand,
And, so, he was called
To breathe our confessions,
To testify thus,
To leave his impressions,
And through them we get
Football absolution,
So we owe a debt
To no small contribution,
For here lies a man true could claim,
“Son, I know it.”
Here lies a fan of the Game
And a Poet.
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