Leave a comment on verse 1 3
Crabbed in his concrete shell
watching the bad go to worse,
‘the gaffer’ draws on his last cigarette,
wincing as his name is barracked down
tiers and jeered along terraces,
his fate knotted in a walnut boardroom –
signed in a cigar’s smoke.
Leave a comment on verse 2 0
The Mediterranean lad –
his unpronounceable six-figure hope –
makes a last-ditch, floodlit
sally into the penalty box,
flashes his quiffy brilliance
then flops on the greasy acreage
to land in a puddle of Bovril and boos.