Football Poets

Football Poets

¶ 1 Leave a comment on verse 1 0 Le Foot poets meet at the end of each street
The Anfields, The Bridges, The Parks
We don’t have an editor hiring our pens
Or an agent who wipes every a*se!

¶ 2 Leave a comment on verse 2 0 The literary sorts who staulk through the halls
And tell us whose names on the list
“Essential to read” it will make yer head bleed
Think I’ll give this match a miss!

¶ 3 Leave a comment on verse 3 0 Now our names won’t be found on the merry go round
Of the BBC best books to read
No “Richard and Judy” or “Morning with Frost”
So stick yer Whitbreads up just where yer please!

¶ 4 Leave a comment on verse 4 0 Now onto the World Cup the cause of such fuss
Metaphors Metatarsals the rage
“Is this a boot stud I see before me?”
Poor players played out on the stage

¶ 5 Leave a comment on verse 5 0 Ah The Beautiful Game is a colour of noise
Banners and flags brought along
The heroes and villains the fouls that destroy
The saints who we name in our songs

¶ 6 Leave a comment on verse 6 0 The history revered in the legends we’ve loved
The Peles and Banksies galore
The ghost of Garrincha whose heart never tired
Like his legs that could charm with a ball

¶ 7 Leave a comment on verse 7 0 Rossi a devil whose name went in lights
Those goals found a home in our hearts
The Belgian defence that was split with a knife
Maradona like Moses could part

¶ 8 Leave a comment on verse 8 0 Cruyff how he turned melt his bones like an eel
Platini wove spells on the pitch
Gemmill set off on his glorious trail
The Dutch were beguiled and bewitched

¶ 9 Leave a comment on verse 9 0 ZiZou and Les Blues were a vision indeed
When they put to the sword Ronnie’s men
The feverous strains the new “La Marseillaise”
Mightier still than Le Pen

¶ 10 Leave a comment on verse 10 0 Eusebio’s skills they were brought to the stage
And they burned with a passion unknown
Zico a prince with his lightning rod boots
At home like a King on his throne

¶ 11 Leave a comment on verse 11 0 “Der Kaiser” so cool with a visionary style
Perfected in Bayern’s backyard
Van Basten a master drawn from the Dutch School
Gentile well named, he was hard!

¶ 12 Leave a comment on verse 12 0 Tardelli’s passion could not be ignored
Jules Rimet watched Gazza in tears
Ticker Taped Kempes played out on the floor
Bobby Robson he aged 20 years!

¶ 13 Leave a comment on verse 13 0 Houghton went tumbling as Italy fell
Lineker’s hattrick was sound
Hagi was magic and Letchkov a trap
That Germans just couldn’t get round

¶ 14 Leave a comment on verse 14 0 Roger Milla he shimmied his Presleyian hips
Valderrama his hair looked on fire
Nelinho did benders that fooled every wall
Butcher gave blood sweat desire

¶ 15 Leave a comment on verse 15 0 Alartichoechea’s impossible save
His almost impossible name
Is there a doctor right here in the house?
Ask for Socrates after the game!

¶ 16 Leave a comment on verse 16 0 Rattin was forced to take back his shirt
What a Pickles we’ve lost the World Cup
Toto Schillaci his eyes popping wild
Ally McCloud still can’t look!

¶ 17 Leave a comment on verse 17 0 Negrete’s scissors cut him a place
The Reggae Boyz partied all night
The Mexican Wave could seen out in space
Whilst the star Baggio shone so bright

¶ 18 Leave a comment on verse 18 0 Rivaldo beat Schmeichel the Great Dane was done
Mooro from Barking a god
Owen goes solo his hamstrings intact
Clive Thomas blew “No goal” the sod!

¶ 19 Leave a comment on verse 19 0 Keegan’s big perms do these lads never learn
Collina he don’t need a brush
Ray Wilkins just strolls with a nonchalant air
The artiste formerly known as Butch

¶ 20 Leave a comment on verse 20 0 Bestie showed up with a girl on each arm
Beckham shows up with his wife
Waddle and Psycho paid with terrace jeers
Escobar paid with his life

¶ 21 Leave a comment on verse 21 0 Yes the Beautiful Game is a colour of noise
As we wrap ourselves up in our flags
Shout from the settees and cheer on our boys
Or cover our heads with our hands!