Ode on a well urned Grecian Win

1 Leave a comment on verse 1 0 Thou still unravished team of quietness,
Thou foster-child of Taylor and Sven’s time,
Football historian, who canst thus express
An Athenian tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What mohawked legend haunts about thy shape
Of deities, or mortals, or both
In Yeovil or the dales of Preston?
What men or gods are these? Where Shearer’s sloth?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter: therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
The bubble is not pierced or burst,
On to Munich on Septem the first.
Five wins, beneath the trees, thou canst now leave
Winterbotham’s record, now laid bare;
But bold Heskey, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal – yet do not grieve;
You cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For McManaman merely kicks fresh air.
But oh ye gods and this urn scene! Cold Pastoral!
When old age shall John Motson’s crew lay waste,
Atko thou shalt remain in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to all, to whom thou say’st,
“Early doors is truth, truth early doors”,
Setting out your stall is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.


I was watching the game with Basil, when Chatterton (Thomas, not Lew, the old Villa player) and Keats appeared as in a vision. They dictated these lines to Basil who wrote them down, verbatim.

Source: http://footballpoets.org/poems/ode-on-a-well-urned-grecian-win/