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The old days again

joe morris

Friday, April 4th, 2025

1 Leave a comment on verse 1 0 There used to be a time when
Two points for a win
Meant pleasure personified
At 5.00 on Saturday afternoon
When Pools coupons represented
Eight draws and
Satisfaction guaranteed
And James Alexander Gordon
Held fate and destiny in his hand
When the world seemed to stop
Spinning on its axis
Since at last we’d hit the jackpot
And mountains of thousands of pounds
Would be winging its way towards
Your hearth and home
And football was the greatest game
We’d ever known
Strikers were centre forwards
Half backs and inside rights or
Lefts, whatever your preference
Ran themselves into the ground
Like industrious dray horses
Ploughing their furrow
On any given day
When football was played with
Medicine balls designed
To break any part of your anatomy
Be it head, feet or fingers and thumbs
And the factory gate would moan and groan
All out brothers, dads, grandsons and
Grandpa.
Chase that bus or train
Look sharpish
We’ve only got five minutes
The terraces will be heaving
Seething, believing
Gallows humour, cynical
Sceptical and why do
We do this to ourselves
Punishing our souls and senses
United will simply thrash us
Battering us into submission
Never mind son or daughter
We’ll always love you
Regardless of the score
Football was never meant
To be seriously
It was only a game
And besides mum’s made
Egg and chips
And that steaming mug of tea
Warm reassurance and consolation
Amid the jaws of adversity
Threatened our serenity
And yet hold on
Football loves its resounding wins
Home and away
Those red raw cheeks
On a wintry Saturday afternoon
Young kids chattering, clattering
And clapping thunderously
Beating the advertising hoardings
And the alphabet half time
And full time results
For all its worth
For this was football’s
Purest democracy
Unchallenged by time
Rattles rattling to the dulcet tones
Of well oiled voices
Come on you Spurs, Chelsea, Liverpool
the Manchesters United and City
There’s only one Arsenal and Spurs
50,000 or 60,000 squeezed together
Into the ultimate confinement of spaces
Jammed solid, no more room to move
Shove over mate,
The terraces are now breathing
And finally the referee
Blows that official whistle
And the game proceeds as
It always has done
Spluttering and stuttering into
Life since this is an end of season game
That demoralising
Anti climax
And nothing depends on it
Voices now muted and subdued
Since relegation is more or
Less settled, time to put the
Kettle on mum because
We’re going down
And resigned to the inevitable
Or maybe Liverpool will win
The League once again
Hold on, I’ve lost count
Since maths becomes irrelevant
But come August
We’ll do the same thing
For the umpteenth time
Since the fans would demand
Nothing less
The sweetest nectar of victory
And a promotion push this year
It has to be
Trophies galore you feel sure
It’s our turn, our time
Forget about the past
The emptiness of one season
After another
Without anything to show
Come May bank holiday
We’ll be doing a lap of honour
Around our ground
Rain or shine
You bet we will

Notes

Football, what a game, hey. Here’s another poetic homage to the old days.

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Source: http://footballpoets.org/poems/the-old-days-again/

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