Football Poets

Gunners still lead from the front.

¶ 1 Leave a comment on verse 1 0 Still the Gunners bring
Out the cavalry and infantry
A battalion of the battle hardened
Red blooded in method
And intent
Today rolling back
The years to Cup Finals
Of 1950 and 71
When Liverpool were
Professionally dealt with
By Arsenal
And beaten with a clip
Around Merseyside ears
But this evening
Beauty and disdain
Combining with rich
Magenta colours
Across the Emirates
Today, boldness in
Their hearts
Those first stirrings
Of sophistication
Coursing through their
Veins
Touches of class
Like the first issues
Of the King’s stamp
Arsenal top by a point
And Liverpool fumbling,
Stalling, not at any
Of the races at least
Two or three furlongs
Behind Anfield’s
Stumbling artisans
A gulf in quality
Wider than the Mersey
A long way to go though
Yet City still breathing
Down Arsenal’s necks
With yet more spit and polish
Over the Saints and Southampton
A thick coat of emulsion to
City’s liking
With stunning embellishments
Artistic bells and whistles
Worthy of exhibition
At the Tate or the
Portrait Gallery
Lovely sweeping motions
Of the transformative brush
Straight lines, cat’s cradle
Of passes intricately woven
Painterly patterns
Across the lush, autumnal
Green of the Etihad
Four more for City
Haaland only one this time
But still capable of more
Miracles of scoring
A phenomenon,
A blond Viking of a
Goal scorer
Goals galore
In his vast armoury
Now Newcastle
Hammer out five
Against the Bees
Of Brentford
Honeycombs in
West London soured
Slightly it has to be said
Geordies dancing though
To the Saudi sounds
Of billions of pounds
Resounding and bounding
Forward, at long last
Newcastle, now a ripe
Juicy fruit, full of
Pep and piquancy
Although without City’s Pep
Goals reaching St James Park
By the lorry load
Consignments of glad
Tidings, perhaps the corner
Has been turned
While today news
From the Palace is
That the Sunday monarchy
Is still in residence
Crystal Palace, full of
French verve and joie de vivre
Under Viera’s reign
Beat a Leeds where the
American dream of Jesse
Is but an optical illusion
At Stamford Bridge
The Potter is manipulating
His clay with stylish
Hands
Chelsea finding dash
And dexterity
This is a Bridge
Very much closer
To Graham’s liking
Wolves hounded and
Then terrified by
The Chelsea onslaught
From all sides
Three and it should
Have been much more
At the Amex
Spurs now blowing hot
And cold along the cooler
Sea fronts of Brighton
A win to North London
Satisfaction
But still on the outside
Looking in at the top
Conte, mourning the
Loss of his fitness coach
But uplifted by the only
Goal on the South Coast
Condolences to one and all
Further along the Southern tip
Of England
Bournemouth rejuvenated
After several hiccups and blips
Finding sanctuary of peace
Against hapless Leicester,
Foxes driven away by the
Smell of delectable Cherries
Gary O’Neill modest and quiet
Bournemouth, a gentle work in
Progress, content to be men
In the middle
Comfortable to be who they are
Everton meet United
It could be an evening to
Remember for North West
Highways and byways
Anything could happen at
Goodison and probably will
Local pecking orders
And noses pushed out of joint
Toffees and Red Devils
Locked in a vice
It could be a stale mate
Or a waterfall of goals
Pounding down from
On high
Or a tentative trickle
From the leakiest tap
We shall see

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