green fingers : stemming the tide of tortuous tat
¶ 1
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they’re springing up everywhere
this growing band of football poets
from flower power, to budding youth
from the withering, to the know wits
¶ 2
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like pigs in muck
quills playfully toil
nurturing such special words
shooting up through the soil
¶ 3
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by taking an axe to the axioms
and clipping at the clichés
let’s hope we can cut out
all the ‘end of the days’
¶ 4
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yet all the while
we’re debunking modern isms
glorifying this sport of ours
with such bounteous rhythms
¶ 5
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so let coaches cultivate
the life blood of the game
whilst we bards, happily prune away
the posturing of fame!
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