Football Poets

Spare a thought

¶ 1 Leave a comment on verse 1 0 Oh spare a thought
For poor old Gibraltar
There must have been
Something in the water
Annihilated by the French
Renaissance
It must have been a gruesome
Sight
When the French gave
Fulsome flair and
Tenacious bite
French chalk up 14
Against the Gibraltar rock
When time seemed to be out
Of their chronological clock
Oh woe for the sad and woebegone
Gibraltar, we do feel sorry
For you and your families
Kith and kin
It wasn’t a sin
But last night we discovered
The game’s brief flirtation
With cruelty and sympathy
We knew that the French
Had too much nous, elan
And street wisdom
But 14 goals against
A team still finding its feet
In the baptismal font
Dire want
Of youthful exuberance
Barely a spring chicken
Of existence
The new boys on the block
Don’t mock
International novices
Still chewing on the Farley’s
Rusk, a babe in arms
It just seems so heartless
Ruthless finality
Les Bleus
Magnifique, the
Correct bon mots
For all to admire
Kylian M’Bappe the wonder
Kid with star studded feet
Diamonds in boots of iron
A hat-trick in shades of blue
France in no mood for leniency
Charity belongs in some
Hidden corner of the Palace
Of Versailles
Goals by the pantechnicon
Load them up Kylian
Onion bags bulging with
Record breaking goals
So ridiculously one sided
That the towel of surrender
Must have been flung onto the
Green acres of fertile
Gallic soil
After a quarter of an hour
No shame though
Since France are
Well established World Cup
Winners indeed
Euro crowns to boot
But this was manslaughter
On the most criminal scale
A cataclysmic avalanche
That wiped out the Rock
But it was just football
Only football
Nothing serious,
Nobody perished
Just a game once
graced by the French
Monarchy of Platini
All silks, satins
And rich, opulent fabrics
Giresse, commander in chief
Engineer, architect
Of stunning edifices
French palaces gold and glass
Six, jinky, quicksilver, light
On his feet,
Then the archives told us
About the masterful Just Fontaine
Goals served up in huge
Silver platters, glinting
In gilt mirrors
Raymond Kopa,
The smoothest operator
Then more latterly
Thierry Henry, Patrick Vieira,
Didier Deschamps directing,
Guiding, pointing, comforting,
A player of the most upper class
What chance did Gibraltar
Stand? None whatsoever
Football was inherited
From ages ago
France, too much
Pomp and ceremony
Football in their plasma,
Their adrenal glands
Blood throbbing through
Their culture
In minds, thoughts
And emotional brew
Football far too
Advanced for Gibraltar
Understanding
So 14 goals for France
Painful
But the truth

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