Football Poets

Sunday Bloody Sunday

¶ 1 Leave a comment on verse 1 0 Out of bed as late as I dare,
pick up my bag from the kitchen chair
Dash out to the street, sleep in my eyes,
late again, but no surprise
I get to the ground and shabby hut,
the changing rooms all locked up
“How many lads have we got today”?
“Not sure right now we’re playing away”

¶ 2 Leave a comment on verse 2 0 Off we go, only ten men we’ve got,
our only hope to win, is from the penalty spot
Dried mud on my boots from last weeks game,
unwashed shirts and no one to blame
The ref’ turns up, all whistle and flag,
70 years old, a cough and a fag
What a sight we make as we take our place
fat and hung over, such a disgrace

¶ 3 Leave a comment on verse 3 0 We pass the ball, in practice we’re good,
superstars, already blathered in mud
The pitch, like a ploughed field but undeterred,
we kick off, tactics unprepared
We scream and shout “give us the ball”
, as we huff and puff, trip, stumble and fall
Ten minutes in, we’ve already had our fill,
as the opposing striker makes it one nil

¶ 4 Leave a comment on verse 4 0 Our keeper screams, now highly strung,
and the midfielder gasps as he looks for his lung
The forwards cough and gasp for a smoke,
our defenders give chase without any hope
Quick as lightening, the opposing team,
after 35 minutes they’ve scored fourteen
Now down to eight as our side depletes
but we carry on, facing another defeat

¶ 5 Leave a comment on verse 5 0 Ref’ looks at his watch, the whistle he blew,
a half time sight this sad motley crew
“Come on lads we’re better than this,
if an open goal came I bet we’d still miss”
A plea goes out “learn to pass straight”,
as the captain and Goalie, break into a fight
With bloody nose and black eye,
back onto the field, its do or die.

¶ 6 Leave a comment on verse 6 0 It’s not going to plan; in fact it’s going to hell,
another five goals, in a 12 minute spell
Now twenty two nil, but we’re not beat yet,
as a miracle happens, a corner we get
The ball is kicked, but wrong direction it soars
, it bullets down-ind, an own goal is scored
Aw! Referee! he tries his best,
up and down he runs in his string vest

¶ 7 Leave a comment on verse 7 0 All studded and scarred as we try and play,
this stupid game on this stupid day
Remembering back, how fit we where,
when we where young without a care
But refusing to give up our yesterdays,
we carry on in our veteran ways
Lightning speed, and quality flair
are now breathless ‘has-beens’ with clumsy despair

¶ 8 Leave a comment on verse 8 0 One last attempt, only a minute or two,
we can still come back, “put the ball through”
As the pass is chased, a trip, a fall,
sixteen stone of deadweight nowhere near the ball
A penalty is given, the ref’ must be blind,
but who cares, we’re twenty eight behind
The ball is placed in the wet mud,
by our forty year old striker, who used to be good.

¶ 9 Leave a comment on verse 9 0 The pitch is silent, the wind blows around,
with baited breath, without a sound
Our striker bounds up with all the grace,
of a drunken late-nighter who fell flat on his face
But, with another effort he connects with his boot,
the power of a snail he begins to shoot
The keeper is rooted, our striker swings hard,
his miscued shot, the ball moves a yard.

¶ 10 Leave a comment on verse 10 0 The whistle is blown to end the match,
another drubbing, dejected heads we scratch.
If we played better, a win we could sneak
, but never mind, there’s always next week.

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