Leave a comment on verse 1 0
Small town, middle of nowhere – surrounded by
Fields and farms. Not much to commend it to
An outside world, save the local football team.
Just a name to millions via the classified results
Every Saturday – but hardy souls scatter the stands
And terraces on winter nights; the players here are
Part of the scenery, not remote millionaires holed
Up in luxury prisons. These men shop at Asda, and
Even drink in local pubs, their status assured and not
Abused…happy with their big fish, small pond lives.
Leave a comment on verse 2 0
They might win, draw, lose – but it’s nothing too
Drastic; nothing that will bring down the wrath of
A whole city for the rest of the week. As long as the
Manager stays on your side then it’s a cushy number,
Not too stressful at ths sleepy country backwater club.
This is the life for many modest pros, who might see
Themselves for a second on Sunday morning highlights,
Or a name check on Teletext, if they score or get sent off.
A workaday existence – no models, no agents – just
Dirty boots and dodgy knees; the game’s raw reality.