Poetry Archives

The price of Football

They charge a lot for admission
To watch our average teams
In an over hyped premier league
Because that is what it seems
They’re knocked out in the Champions League
But praised for getting that far
They all believe they’re good enough
To which I find bizarre

The price they charge are scandalous
And even in the championship
Thirty odd quid for a match ticket
And more for the fans round trip
It wont be long before the bubble bursts
Coz prices are far too high
They’ve been ripping off the fans for years
How do these clubs justify

The amount of money these players so call earn
Has gone beyond a joke
They’re bleeding football clubs dry
It’s a wonder they don’t go broke
Four hundred grand a week
For a player who cannot pass a ball
Talk about stealing a living
Tells the story overall.

But the fans they bear the brunt of this
And like fools they continue to pay
But many are so dedicated
They watch them home and a away
I always say good luck to them
But for me I’ve been outpriced
I can’t afford the ticket cost
My football is sacrificed.


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“Struggling With A Semi”

I couldn’t get excited
Try as hard as I might
My heart wasn’t in it
Yet it was a semi-final last night.
Perhaps it was the setting
First game ‘away’ from Champion Hill
Strangely even though it was at Tooting
Not such a bitter pill.
Forced to be a refugee
Fleeing from our own home
Not knowing if we’ll ever return
Or how long left to roam.
Won’t miss the final at Aveley
Avoiding Billericay Town
Sidestepping their entire circus
Ringmaster Tamplin head clown.
More importantly last night
Was over two hundred through the gate
Credit to Metropolitan Police
They were really great.
Not a fan to cheer them
No supporters in sight
But they gave us their share of the split
In my book they’re almost alright.
We might miss out on a final
Usually you’d say there’s next year
More important is simply surviving
Going out of existence is my fear.
On Saturday we’re marching
Holding a rally on Goose Green
We’ve had plenty of crisis in the past
This is as desperate as it’s been.
Now forced to play on Sunday
Back over Mitcham way
As long as we have a team next season
I don’t care how long we stay.
It’s going to be an emotional weekend
We’re on football’s life support machine
All the anger than entails
Time to vent our spleen.
Still supporting our boys
As always sing and shout
But the loudest chant of all
Must simply be “MEADOW OUT!”

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“Going Home”

It’s now the early hours
On the coaches heading home
No shame in losing to Macclesfield
As our performances have shown.
It’s been a huge Trophy run
Of which I didn’t dare dream
Despite being knocked out earlier
I’m trying to hide a beam.
In my head I had thoughts of Wembley
Knowing they’d never come true
But just to be drawn against Tranmere Rovers
Made me so proud to be Pink & Blue.
It wasn’t so long ago
We had a replay down in deepest Hants
A Monday night at Havant and Waterlooville
When our away support was pants.
That night we were pony
Losing three nil away fans numbering ten
Tonight we went to Cheshire
An army of one fifty women and men!
Singing for ninety minutes
Lung and hearts pounding strong
Totally outclassing the Silkmen
When it came to cheers and song.
Out there on the pitch
Couldn’t find the back of the net
Wembley just wasn’t to be
Simply not our time quite yet.
So much hope for the future
Under the genius of Gavin Rose
Still a chance of promotion
Let’s see how it goes.
Then there’s the League and London
Two cups still at stake
So much still to look forward to
I’m dreading the summer break!

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“Essex Boy”

I wasn’t that impressed
As we drove in at night
If I were forced to live in Pitsea
I’d have to run and take flight.
Looking as dreary as Canvey Island
Just without the seas
Welcome to the delights of football
At Bowers & Pitsea FC.
That’s Pitsea with the ‘sea’
Inland Essex without the shore
Typical Poundlands and bookies
I think you know the score.
Can’t work out the ‘sea’ in their name
But totally get the ‘Pit’
No wonder Essex has a reputation
For being a dump and a bit.
Amid all this suburban conformity
An oasis we found
The place they call the Len Salmon Stadium
That’s the Bowers & Pitsea football ground.
It could be ‘Non League-ville’ anywhere
I’d didn’t chat but the locals were warm
The decent game was a bonus
The home team were on form.
Five nil seems like a canter
But Norwich United weren’t that bad
Their defence cut through like butter
Making the final score rather sad.
Should’ve been up in Macclesfield
Trophy replay off in the snow
I could have stayed indoors moping
Chose to get out for somewhere to go.
So it was off to Ryman League North
Deepest darkest Essex for a ‘tick’
A million miles better
Than staying at home feeling sick.
Always try to be positive
A week to prolong my Wembley dream
Sometimes the disaster of a postponement
Isn’t as bad as it may seem.

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Fine Dreams of Heaven (A Liverpool Child)

The dreaming of peace that is heaven
An elegant pause in the light
A bright shining star in the silence
That burns in the dead of the night
A voice then but quietly whispers
And comforts my doubts and my fears
Takes me back down the old road to childhood
And wipes away all the sadness and tears

He tells of the heroes of Anfield
And I listen and never grow bored
From the deeds of Elisha to Lindsay
From Liddell and Cormack and Hall
Great Reds who once brought us the glory
Their times paved with legends of yore
And the beautiful football they gave us
Just left us all begging for more

The guide holds my hand gives me strength
But the face in the shadows unseen
Yet this stranger I know I can trust
And my father then waves back to me
There’s Bob in his cardie and slippers
Chatting footy with young Bobby Moore
Whilst Joe Fagan nips out for a ciggie
Carrying cup number 4

There’s a form taking shape in the distance
And my heart beats a hundred to one
And I yearn just to speak to my hero
But the words that I want they won’t come
And I trip up on my tongue that’s in knots
As words fall to the stones of the street
He says “There’s a place in the town of your dreaming
Where those of the one true faith meet”

Then the skies fused with almighty thunder
And from lightning the truth did reveal
A bright burning vision before me
“Christ this cannot be real!”
Heaven is not in the silence of mortar
Or caught in the lustre of gold
It is cannot be found in the greed
That burdens the world-weary soul

Heaven is not in the wounds from a sword
Does not rise from the smoke of the gun
It is not in the chains of our ignorance
That binds up the rights of each man
It does not hide in the mists of the clouds
Or slip like a fist in a glove
It’s borne on the lips of the truth
Speaking those sweet words of love

It does not twist the wisdom of reason
Nor harbour revenge in its prayer
But speaks out for freedom and justice
And its gifts always eager to share
It was there in the fishes and loaves
It was there in the water and wine
It was there on the cruel cross of Calvary
It is changeless and constant as time

It is brave and will always be patient
It will bend but it never will break
It’s a lamp that shines out in the darkness
Never tiring of showing the way
From the hope of the Mathew Street pilgrims
Guides us all down to Strawberry Fields
Slips through a Cracke in the page of our history
That on the list is our #9 dream

James Cagney calls Bogart across
“Do you know anyone tougher than me?”
Bogart smiles, points to Shankly and says:
“That guy’s the toughest there’s been!”
For heaven is borne of the truth
And it breathes with a passion not stone
Amazes with grace and forgiveness
Its altar? Our Liverpool home.

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Imagine if you hated yours
I can’t say that’s me
But then I’m rather fortunate
I’ve got the choice of three.
There’s my proper real one
Parents are both brown bread
Don’t see my brother and sisters often
If the truth be said.
But the four of us love each other
The kind that comes from the heart
Does it really matter
That mainly we’re apart?
My second family’s at football
Dulwich Hamlet being my Club
It’s what made and defines me
Sadly too often that was down the pub.
But my friends here keep me going
Supporting me through thick and thin
Now without any alcohol
My buzz is when we win.
My last five years on the Committee
Have taught me to believe
As down the decades in the past
I never thought I could achieve.
I’m still roughly the same person
Outwardly moany and quite poor
But my inner confidence-
That has grown for sure.
Finally there’s the poetry crowd
Who are my newest tribe
Sometimes I feel I don’t fit in
Qualifying as a scribe.
It’s a bit like Dulwich Hamlet
Learning to accept those who are posh
Old fashioned insecurities based on accents
In all honesty a load of tosh.
Well old habits are there to be broken
Stereotypes tossed aside
All that should really matter
Is the warmth of heart inside.
Next time a stranger speaks
I won’t be working class judge and jury
Obviously easier said than done
But first I’ll try to hear your story.
My real family I’ll always care for
Take that as read
The same for Dulwich Hamlet
Who I’ll support until I’m dead.
The third one is a bonus
One I’m so lucky to have found
Open Mic gets me buzzing
As any football ground.
The old saying ‘family is for love’
A cliché that’s a bane
For me I’m just grateful
I’ve got three to keep me sane.
You might think I’m weird
My hobbies so wrong
But I’ve got no shame at all
For it’s where I belong.

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“Hair of the Dog”

When you’re feeling rotten
‘Hair of the dog’ is the cure
But then what happens
When the Youth Team are just as poor?
Not based on performance
But chucking away a lead
It’s bad enough when it’s First Team
On a Sunday it’s not what I need.
I don’t expect success
Wall-to-wall joy
Been following Dulwich for decades
Over forty years man and boy.
The wrong result on a Saturday
I can’t even cry in my beer
Have to rely on the youngsters
To being me Sunday cheer.
Now it’s double bubble
The pain is twice as bad
So winning at Kingstonian tomorrow
Is the only way to stop me feeling sad.
That’s the thing with football
Dulwich Hamlet are my life
So when any team loses a game
I’m battered with inner-strife.
I take it really personal
You might think it weird
But it’s more than just something to do
Supping craft beer and trimmed beard.
I’m not one for Christmas
Even though it’s so near
So come on Dulwich Hamlet
Win tomorrow for my seasonal cheer.

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“Que Sera Sera”

It’s a perk of being a club official
I’m on the Team Coach today
On the way down to Winchester City
Third Qualifying Round drawn away.
They may be a division below us
But form goes out the door
The cup’s a great leveller
So let’s hope we don’t play poor.
The form we’re currently in
Should be far too strong
Without being too confident
What could possibly go wrong?
Hopefully come ten to five
I’ll be grinning like a Cheshire cat
Alternatively there’s the option
My weekend’s gone totally flat.
With a bit of hope and luck
We’ll go a few more rounds
Drawn in far-flung northern holes
Visiting weird places and grounds.
Another couple of victories
And this Trophy begins to tease
Imagine a visit to the arch
If we perform and don’t freeze.
After today it’s five rounds to Wembley
Stranger things have occurred
In truth I’m not sure what they are
Humour me and take my word.
I know it will never happen
But until we lose there’s hope
In truth if we ever got to Wembley
I don’t know how I’d cope.
I’d be shedding tears of emotion
Crying all through the game
Even if we went and lost six nil
My life would never be the same.
To see The Hamlet at Wembley
It only happens in my head
The fans of North Ferriby and Morpeth Town
I bet that’s what they always said.
I know the chances are minimal
But I still dream every year
Until that moment we’re knocked out
In my head it’s all so clear.
That childhood dream I secretly cling to
A Pink & Blue Wembley Way
No matter how distantly impossible
I live life for that just one day.
Come three o’clock I’ll be louder
An extra special cheer
We can do our bit like the players
Sat at the rear.
Twenty miles to Winchester
Two hours until the game
If we suffer a shock defeat
I’ll only have myself to blame.
I was wearing my lucky socks
But are they on the wrong feet
Such a superstitious nature
Of fans all over
Our fault when we’re beat.
But the inquest’s for later
Cos I don’t think we’re going to lose
From where I’m currently sitting
In my ‘Going to Wembley shoes’.

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People say if they cut me
I’d bleed Pink and Blue
I hate to disappoint
But it simply ain’t true.
I’m as ordinary as everyone else
My claret’s old fashioned red
I think it will just break my heart more
If my Football Club ends up dead.
Everything I’ve ever done
All I ever do
My beloved Dulwich Hamlet
I do it all for you.
Champion Hill’s what defines me
It’s my spiritual home
If we go out of existence
I’ll never be so alone.
Greedy property developers
Throwing their toys out the pram
One hundred & twenty five years of history
They don’t give a damn.
I’m so scared of the future
For both my Club and me
Just sell up Meadow Residential
That is my heartfelt plea.
In my 44 years of supporting
It’s been mostly seasons of hurt
But that’s no reason to treat us
Like a proverbial piece of dirt.
‘Pa’ Wilson began it all
Way back in 1893
From his little acorn
Grew the greatest oak tree.
Four times Amateur Cup winners
Best non-league ground in the land
How on earth did it come to this
From our own ground banned?
The last ten years have been special
Best crowds for fifty years
We really have built up too much
For it all to end in tears.
Exiled to our ‘enemies’
Tooting & Mitcham now our ‘home’
But I will follow us anywhere
No matter where we roam.
Like a dog is not just for Christmas
A football club’s for life
It’s just than in my case
It’s also my surrogate wife!
Last year we almost got to Wembley
Two rounds from the arch
Now we’re in intensive care
Fighting death with a rally and march.
No matter what happens
I’ve got to hide my hate
And if the worst comes to the worst
Know that I stepped up to the plate.
I don’t care what standard
Where we are or Step Five
Constantly praying to my God Edgar Kail
Please keep Dulwich Hamlet alive.

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I knew we were getting gentrified
But this is really too far
Smoked salmon sarnies on the bus
Talk about lah-di-dah!
She claims she’s ‘one of us’
Growing up on the Rockingham Estate
I’ll bet she’s never had jellied eels
Or pie and mash on her plate.
She ‘pretends’ to drop ‘er aitches
So she can blend in
Not realising in ‘New-Veau’ Dulwich
Being posh ain’t a sin.
Not that I’m knocking her
She loves our Pink & Blue
Always willing to muck in
Whatever there’s to do.
Browbeating the players
Nagging in their ear
Not afraid of anyone
Especially after a beer.
In truth she’s a special person
A fan with real heart
As long as you ignore the pink lipstick
Painted up like a tart!

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Source: http://footballpoets.org/poems/page/2/