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The ballad of Jermaine Pennant

Peter Goulding

Saturday, March 12th, 2011

1 Leave a comment on verse 1 0 The morning sun fell lightly on
the boots of Jermaine Pennant,
in a lonely training centre
in an English midlands town.
It could have been him, perhaps,
winning international caps,
but his team-mates had all flown off
and Jermaine was feeling down.

2 Leave a comment on verse 2 0 At the age of twenty eight,
he realised he’d never play
for England in the World Cup
with the warm wind in his hair.
The hotline had stopped ringing,
so he stood there softly singing
English folk songs that he’d memorised
in his daddy’s easy chair.

3 Leave a comment on verse 3 0 International weeks were murder,
the training ground was bare,
and there were oh so many ways
for him to spend the day.
He could practise throws like Rory’s
or tell himself bright stories,
or dribble round the static cones
that lined up in his way.

4 Leave a comment on verse 4 0 At the age of twenty eight,
he realised he’d never play
for England in the World Cup
with the warm wind in his hair.
The hotline had stopped ringing,
so he stood there softly singing
English folk songs that he’d memorised
in his daddy’s easy chair.

5 Leave a comment on verse 5 0 The evening sun fell lightly on
the boots of Jermaine Pennant
as he sat in his apartment
with his mobile at his side.
It takes a certain irrationality
to change your nationality,
and he sat there softly dreaming
of the greener grass outside.

6 Leave a comment on verse 6 0 At the age of twenty eight,
he thought that he might play
for Ireland in the World Cup
with the warm wind in his hair.
The telephone was ringing,
but he sat there softly singing
Irish rebel songs he’d memorised
in Grand-daddy’s easy chair.

© Peter Goulding 12th March 2010

Notes

Jermaine Pennant has just dicovered an Irish grandparent and now wants to play for the Republic. Puh-leeze.

Source: http://footballpoets.org/poems/the-ballad-of-jermaine-pennant/