|

The Winter of Our Discontent

michael spring

Wednesday, February 26th, 2003

1 Leave a comment on verse 1 0 There or thereabouts in October
Nowhere in May.
There’s no secret about it,
In winter, we can’t play.
By the time the romance of the cup comes round,
Every single person in the crowd,
Knows that some cloggers are going to stuff us,
On a pitch that could have been ploughed.
In January, our deadly once-tanned strike force,
Wilts, turns pale, stares pathetically at the dugout.
While the blue faced manager contemplates cricket,
Having lost the will to shout.
It’s not that we’re a great ball-playing side,
Though sometimes we’ve a hero,
In August, at least, when we’re fresh from the beach,
But never when it’s sub zero.
Our old fans know when its turning to snow,
They don’t bother to look at the forecast,
As the ball slides quietly through our goalie’s knees,
They begin to feel the raw blast.
The first time our striker fires over from a yard
You can hear Autumn leaves start to fall.
The price of home heating is on everyone’s lips
As their full back chips over our wall.

© michael spring

Notes

This is deeply unfair – especially if there were any reference to QPR, who this season have not worn gloves much, if at all

Source: http://footballpoets.org/poems/the-winter-of-our-discontent/