Up to the top of the Premiership table
they climbed on the back of great results.
Roared on by partisan crowds
neutral or not, everyone exults.
And the noise grew longer and louder
as chords struck raw nerves;
mind games were played and won –
the kind every tabloid lurves.
Up to the very heights they went;
and though too many a word they say,
their goals outnumbered a poet’s love-songs
in the first green weeks of May.
The stealthy shadows of fate crept closer,
clutching at the hem of their shirts;
and there at the very top they stumbled,
but only the Gunners know how much it hurts.
Smarting, they decree themselves the best,
citing many displays, so beautifully crafted;
but they bemoan a perceived injustice –
and a sense of being shafted.