Leave a comment on verse 1 0
The old ground don’t look the same
In the sepia pictures that they’ve framed
Where Senior Service smoke wafts to the sky
Seems every punter wears a cap
Protecting scarves, rosettes and rattles?
Why you can almost taste the Bovril, there in the sign.
Leave a comment on verse 2 0
Rows of titfers never-ending*
Like bright young faces at assembly
As they wait on their baggy icons to appear
In dubbined boots and brylcreemed hair
A medicine ball tossed in the air
Wearing a lace ones football boots might wear.
Leave a comment on verse 3 0
The lanky guardian of the net
Might don a polar necked woollen sweater
With a cap to keep the sun out of his eyes
How he kicked that brown thing, no one knows
Must have ended games with sore painful toes
Bruised from trying to get that thing to fly.
Leave a comment on verse 4 0
They’d wingers fast as whippets
Centre forwards built that big
A centre half would need to resemble a blocks of flats
Inside right and inside left
Might help boost an under fire defence
Win the ball and then muster a team’s attack.
Leave a comment on verse 5 0
On the line, stood a manager and his coach
A couple of ordinary working blokes
A collar and tie to impress the local press
They’d the dug out to themselves
Where plots were hatched or plans got shelved
Depending on the skills of eleven men.
Leave a comment on verse 6 0
Game over, the battle won
Maybe a draw for the days work done
Or a painful defeat that stuck in the craw of the miffed
Who would troop off home through the lamp lit streets
Discussing: ”Going over The Arsenal away next week?”
This poems inspired by a sepia picture of Stamford Bridge!