Football Poets

Oh woe on Merseyside

¶ 1 Leave a comment on verse 1 0 Not quite the apocalypse
But seven games into the season
And claret and blue
Bubbles are bursting in
Pastel shades of profusion
Gloom and doom
Merchants are growing
Moodily cynical
In East End cafe
Discussion groups
At the highest level
Writing not quite on the
Wall for West Ham
But the graffiti is
Simply grotesque
Defeat on Merseyside
Against one of their favourite
Sons, Lampard
Gloating from within
Still harbouring grudges
When rejection at his
Hometown club felt
Like the end of his world
Then Chelsea brought
Him back to back
Premier League titles
Everton, back on Goodison
Good terms, first three points
And West Ham falling into dark
Pits and fiery furnaces of hellish
Form. Nothing but greyness
Seeping into every pore of
Their football
Sackcloth and ashes
Piteous, pitiful, almost
But not quite
So what about the Three Musketeers
Who warmed the bench
Scamacca, Cornet and Benrahma
Primed and poised to strike
Like cobras in the undergrowth
The rattlesnake hissing
With lethal intent
Then suddenly
The vultures and vampires
Hover over Stratford
Relegation surely unthinkable
But we’ve been here before
More goals in Europe
Than the autumnal domestic
Hearth at the London Stadium
Just flickering flames rather than
Fire and brimstone
In the East End inner sanctum
Poison in the air
The natives are restless
For David Moyes
More of this fiasco
And P45s will beckon
For the genial Scot
Five defeats by the odd
Goal or so
Relentless misery
Maupay scores a cracker
Of a winner at the once
Wealthy landowners
Of Everton
But then showbiz
Impresario Bill Kenwright
Brings a gloss and sheen
To Goodison,
Who once witnessed
North Korea stunning the
World in the World
Cup of 1966
With their frills
And festivities against
Portugal
But latterly Everton
Have been architects
Of their downfall
Slumping, struggling, shrugging
Their shoulders
Arrogantly, disdainfully
The rest of the Premier
League was somehow
Beneath them, a degrading
Sight for sore eyes
Bournemouth, Brighton,
Fulham totally undeserving
Of the Toffees respect
Mere feathers in the wind
How dare they share
The same platform as Everton
But the side from the other
Side of Stanley Park
Are back on the big screen
While West Ham nurse
Their hangovers, sore
Heads
Bewilderment for Sunday
Tea, the Hammers devouring
Their customary pie and mash
With bleak faces to the world
Four points but seemingly leaderless
Rudderless, no brakes, faulty gears,
Empty tanks of petrol and diesel
The hard shoulder now the cold shoulder
Stuck in the sticky, mud caked quagmire
Low in intensity, little appetite or stomach
For the fight,
Thankfully the international break
Looms again
Major refurbishment, structural tweaks,
Needed urgently before
Worst case scenarios
Tighten the bolts, adjustments to
The collective moods and mannerisms
West Ham lost in a world of their own
Buried heads of introspection
Where to go, not that road
Off that roundabout
Ever increasing circles
Of yet more doubt,
Step up to the plate
Soucek, Benrahma and Paqueta
Before birthday boy Bonzo
From Hammers yesteryear
Blasts ear drums with meaty
Reprimands, juicy expletives
Invectives to strip off paint
In Upton Park dressing rooms
Billy Bonds would have demanded
Blood, sweat and tears
Now hungry Wolves
Await the Thames Ironworks
In a fortnight
Time for East End stevedores
To roll up their sleeves.
Hammers, saws, chisels
At the ready, while
The muscular Christianity
Of docklands
Remind you of the early
Days of Syd King and Charlie
Paynter when men in proud
Waistcoats and caps
Gathered in pools of delight
If only our claret and blue
Yeomen could summon
That robustness of spirit
From way back when
They were young and
So were we
West Ham neither good
Or bad, simply just
Unpredictable
Sinking deep into predictable
Relegation quicksand
But now that autumn
Is among us
Greeting new carpets
Of brown and yellow
On the ground
Wolves will be howling
Sadly
In the London Stadium
A fortnight from now
Where once Olympians
Plied their legendary trade

25