Football Poets

Spurs – top of the Premier League surely not

¶ 1 Leave a comment on verse 1 0 And now for something
Completely different
Startling and totally
Unexpected
Spurs are top of the
Premier League
Gasps of astonishment
On the Richter scale
Colossal shifting of
Tectonic plates
Surely not
Last located as
Ruling emperors
In the land of trophies
That was the era
Of revolution
Sensation,
Rampant materialism
Spurs win the old
First Division
In the days of Cliff’s
Summer Holiday
Adam Faith’s warbling
Breathless tonsils
Adored by the screaming
Girls from the beehive age
The personification of
Youthful rock star
Back in 1961 and 62
The Double Diamonds
Of White Hart Lane
Intoxicated our souls
With classical intonations
Spurs once monarchs
Of North London
In the throne room
Along the Seven Sisters Road
Spurs once marched
Imperiously down
Well trodden pavements
With Bill Nick
Bill Nicholson’s Double
Winners
Almost an ancient artefact
Deeply buried in the
Haunted crypt of decades
Long since gone
But of course Spurs have
Been top of the house
Before but now consigned
To the yellowing pages of
History, historic
Football literature
Kings of the castle
Once but not since
The dawn of the Sixties
Steel shutters guarding
Their impenetrable fortress
When Terry Dyson streamlined,
The sumptuous flowering
Of only one Bobby Smith
A player written in golden scriptures
Learned in the arts of the striker’s
Finishing school
Then there was Danny Blanchflower
A member of Bill Nick’s
Midfield nobility
A player of regal status
Statesmanship and subtlety
Poise and sitting aloft
With the crown of authority
Upon that always receptive head
Groaning with idealism
Never flustered, ruffled
Or rumpled, just in charge
Of a centre circle
Vastly knowledgeable
A model of footballing
Erudition who once snubbed
Eamonn’s
Red book of life
Then there were the days
Of Hoddle and Waddle,
Crooks and Archibald
Ricky and Ossie
Presiding over their
Rugged landscape
Of Cup Final glory days
And who could ever forget
Nice One Cyril Knowles
John Pratt, Mike England
Just impassable
You’re not coming in
Without a ticket sir,
Steve Perryman Tottenham
In his bloodstream
From birth
Genetically dependable
Captain of the ship
Land ahoy ladies and gentleman
Perryman a leader by nature
And nurture
Lifting the FA Cup in 1981
While our pals from the pampas
Ossie and Ricky
Gingerly skipped across
Old Wembley’s timeless charms
Teachers of the tango
To Tottenham’s lively dance floor
Fleet of feet,
Dainty and dextrous
But never Strictly
Now though today
Tottenham are back at the top
Not for long the noisy Gooners
Neighbours must hope
Since these are infant days
Of autumn and September dews
Mists and mellow fruitfulness
Crunching, sweeping
Playful yellow leaves
The last conkers
Of the season
Now just a fleeting reminder
Of back then
Winter awaits
Tottenham
Judgments reserved
It’s a long and gruelling
Season spanning endless
Bridges of the present
There’s a long way to go
So be prepared for the
Marathon, Spurs
Next May and Premier
League debating tables
Have yet to whisper
And mutter triumphant
Declarations
Your winning trophy
After 60 years of drought
Is not even an embryo
Or thought

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