Football Poets

FA Cup again- Hammers v Leeds 3rd Round

¶ 1 Leave a comment on verse 1 0 West Ham
Against Leeds United
In the third round
Of the FA Cup
Still the one trophy
Where parched thirsts
Can never be satisfied
Since this is the one
They crave, hunger
After, like men
In the desert
Seeking drops of water
Over the rainbow
Where the rains have
Washed away dreams
In winter’s icy chill
But we’ll believe
That May, the FA Cup
Could be ours again
Now 42 years later
But not the summer
Of 42,
So wicked and spiteful
It’s a conspiracy,
West Ham have never
Even so much as
Seen the
Chink of light
Away from the
Wembley arches
Or underneath them
But over the weekend
The claret and blue
Men will dust themselves
Down, again
Fondly recalling the hazy
Mists of 1980 when
The Gunners were
Beaten fair and square
On the cusp of that warm
May day, early summer calling
When the sun rippled and
Shimmered on claret and blue
Shields of honour
Bubbles effervescent
Witty East End badinage
Jokes and banners in full
Spate, spreading around
Terraces of foolhardy
Wishful thinking, then
Recognising that fate
Could be on our side
When the court jesters
Of medieval times
Danced on wobbly
Tables, then North
London’s
Fair green acres,
Awaited expectation
On its front door
When the old Wembley
Wept with joy
For East End
Conquests of fear
But Leeds now stand
In the way of
Of another East End
Pub fuelled
Celebration
If only West Ham
Could witness
Another magisterial
Sir Trevor Brooking
Parade of jewels
The header on knees
Seemingly falling back
Into fields of glory
The winner against
Arsenal.
Rather like the
Most graceful
Ballet, a stunning day
Now for Leeds though
The team once demolished
By a claret and blue
Bulldozer, when a wrecking
Ball smashed Don Revie’s
Emerging,
Strolling swaggerers
In the nursery of
Their ebullient youth
Bremner, the tiger
With a snarl and
Customary bite
Lorimer with the
A shot born
Of bloodthirsty
Ferocious feeling
A clap of thunder
In the Upton Park
Mid week furnace
Then Johnny Giles
Swaying, gliding
In the gluepot
Of Upton Park
Could only sit back
And admire the
Hammers seven
In the old League Cup
Its severity, its cruelty
The savagery of its
Power and direction
From remarkable
Distance
Unapologetic as
The missile of fire
And so West Ham
Go head to head
With Leeds
Remembering the
Night of the seven
When Sealey and
Brabrook, Hurst
And Peters carved
For a living the meat
And then the bones
Of the decaying corpse
That was Leeds
White as a sheet
Shocked to the core
Then traumatised
On the final blast
Of the referee’s
Whistle in the dark
But David Moyes
Will hope that this
Year is his to savour
And revel in the victory
That always slipped
Tantalisingly away
From him at Preston’s
Once Invincibles
Then the Bank of England
Of Everton found a currency
Of their own
But never under David
Moyes, but then Manchester
United summoned a successor
To Sir Alex’s paradise years
And found nothing but the charred
Remains and smoking debris
Of a burnt out United
On Sunday though
Moyes will assume an
East End hue
Claret and blue
Fencing swords with
Bielsa’s Leeds
Cavaliers, certainly
Not Roundheads
Oh what we’d give
For another Stratford
Concert of resounding
Trombones, tinkling
Of the ivories, glistening
Guitars of an FA Cup
Encore.
Yes, there
Was Sir Trevor’s head
In 1980
When Dev revved,
Pike scampered
Like a terrier
And Pat Holland
Like a whippet
Hurrying here and there
To distances untold
Rolled down socks
With plenty to spare
Stamina personified
We can only hope
That the bridge of
42 years will be
Not become that
Daunting journey
From hell as well
So let’s just
Pull away from
Platform
And the Cup will
Be ours,
For John Lyall
Read David Moyes
A trophy in the
London Stadium
Cabinet
We can only hope
You never know

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