On First Looking Into Sampson’s Away Days
¶ 1
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Much have I mouthed shouts at the drought of goals,
And many a crepit stand and stadium seen.
Round many a woolly island have I been,
Far from the grounds which sheikhs and oligarchs hold,
Oft of a one-eyed land have I been told
Where Lairds bred, Pongo Waring, Dixie Dean.
Yet never did I suss its casual scene
Till I read Sampson’s opus, stark and bold.
Then felt they were in Thetis, trapped inside,
Or Conway boys, secrets shared, midnight session.
John Lennon from the Mersey, New York eyes,
But “Elvis” makes of Berlin his confession.
So may Tranmere, now new romanticized,
Scape joining Wrexham down joyless divisions.
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