Football Poets

Southampton relegated – and two more.

¶ 1 Leave a comment on verse 1 0 So there it is
Southampton relegated
From the Premier League
Oh woe by the South Coast
Too late to boast
Conclusive proof
That those in the Championship
Were far too aloof
Could never quite hack it
Without the kit
Among the bigger boys
With the Premier League toys
In the most daunting school
Of them all
Yet never the fool
The Saints go marching out
Never given a shout
At the burning embers of the season
No reason
Here in early April
Springtime flaunts her
Daintiest dresses
Never messes with our body clock
You can still hear the tick tock
And the cuckoos
Who used to open
Their sweetest throats
Amid the bobbing boats
At the court of
Lawrie Mcmenemey’s
Decibel driven Dell
All was always well
Now mourn the loss
The gathering moss
Of another wasted
Premier League campaign
What an excruciating pain
The blue spring skies
Why oh why?
Weeping copiously
Sobbing hopelessly
On tear stained terraces
St Mary’s broken and beaten
Desolate and defeated
No longer heated by
The wistful warmth of late
August
What have Southampton
Got to do
To keep afloat
In the shark infested waters
Of the Premier League?
Maybe the Saints need
The rosary bead
The comforting influence
Of vicars and priests
With kind hearts
But now the Saints
Hang their heads not
In shame and pity
Or maybe not
More resignation
To harsh reality
Whatever will be will be
But certainly not
Going to Wembley
More like the New Den
At Millwall
And deep into Deepdale
Where the Preston plumbers
Of Tom Finney’s finest await
Football can be so cruel and callous
Southampton out of their depth
In the Premier League
But probably too good for
The Championship
Then there’s Leicester
Down in the dejected dungeons
Mired in the relegation drop zone
Foxes teetering on the edge
Wolves hounding them
Predators hunting both
Ready to devour the
Rotting carcasses
The King Power no longer
Rubbing shoulders with regal
Crowns and princes
Destined perhaps for demotion
Ruud Van Nistelrooy
A Dutch master still seeking
The perfect masterpiece
And then there was Wolves
Howling in the wilds
And wind swept
Fields of old gold
Possibly, hopefully not
Your claret and blue
West Ham to the core
Never losing the faith
And yet left adrift
In the placid lagoons
Of gentle lapping waves
Going nowhere in particular
The most dreadful season
Where a valiant Spaniard
Julen Lopetegui thought
He knew best
But only produced the worst
It’s all too much for some
The final furlongs of
That Premier League steeplechase
Relegation and promotion hurdles
Wreaking havoc with our
Seasons of snow, wind
And now the cherry blossom
Of springtime fruition
Light and shade
Darkness and delight
Ready your transistor radios
For the last day of the season
It’s make or break
Nerve wracking in the extreme
Bite those teeth
Clench those molars
Again and again
Fingernails fraught with fear
And terror
But sadly the Saints are down
Donning the downcast gown
We’ll miss those
Virtuous souls
Who thought they’d seen
It all but then found
That hope had gone
To stony ground
Those caring faces
Wearing proper bootlaces
At St Mary’s
Now grim and gaunt
Those spirits will haunt
Them when June meets July
Oh why?
And football reflects
For a while
The Saints did have style

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