1 Leave a comment on verse 1 0 ‘Next up at The Hawthorns’ announced the tannoy, ‘Stoke.’
‘I hate playing them’ said the elderly bloke
sat next to me as I sank deeper into my coat,
a draw not really enough to raise hopes of staying afloat.
‘If you can’t beat Bolton at home, you might as well pack it up’ he added; and he had a point- out of the cup
to a Championship side and now bottom of the pile.
(Seems a long time since winning the Championship in style.)
And next up at The Hawthorns… Stoke City.
Always kick us off the park; they’re far too gritty
and tough for our silky passing game.
‘Stoke’ I mutter into my collar; there’s something about the very name….
(Last time we played, some bloke shouted to Jon Parkin: ‘You’re so fat!’
I wish he hadn’t- he smiled across at us and scored right after that!)


Source: http://footballpoets.org/poems/stoked/