Sunday, Bloody Sunday.
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He wakes up to the siren of the clock beside his bed,
He rubs his eyes and starts to feel the banging in his head,
It’s 8 o’clock on Sunday morn, he’s only had five hours,
But he mustn’t let his mates down so he summons up his powers.
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He drinks a litre of diet coke to ease the dehydration,
Then sets off down to meet his mates at the petrol station,
His lift turns up and they all pile in, squashed and jammed up tight,
The car is filled with smells of beer and curry from last night.
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He shouts and swears with all his mates as they change in a cold, damp room,
The boisterousness holds no bounds, it’s Sunday in the tomb,
He strides out through the mist that hugs the rutted council pitch,
Up to the centre circle, hand down shorts, attending to the itch.
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He tentatively shakes the hand of his foe in black and red,
Then shouts “tails” as the tarnished coin spins above his head,
He runs, he kicks, he hurts, he spits, his vitriol unchecked,
He courts displeasure of the man, who is in black bedecked.
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He leaves the battered field of play, threatening retribution,
Knowing, deep down inside, his worthless contribution,
And afterwards in the bar he’s pompous, rude and haughty,
‘Cos this is Sunday football and tomorrow he is forty.
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He knows his days of mud and blood are nearly at an end,
The paunch that sits upon his belt is now his new best friend,
He’ll fill him up with pie and ale until he’s fit to burst,
But he will go on drinking to satisfy his thirst.
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He staggers off the bus and somehow opens the front door,
He slumps down in the armchair and sleeps three hours or more,
He wakes up to the siren of the ambulance outside
Then cries as he realises, that Sunday football had just died.
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