From the mills and the mines;
From foundries and factories;
From the docks and the dole;
Filling the steps and the stands.
A sea of cloth caps, swaying as
The match ebbed and flowed in
Front of them.
Their drug, their obsession, their
Way out of life’s problems, but
At least they could afford to pay
A release, a communal strength in
The colours of their team. No aggro,
No nastiness, just cigareetes and the
Banter of men.
From the call centres and the offices;
From the self-employed tradesmen;
From the company expense accounts;
All money and no heart, demanding
Success – boorish and loud-mouthed.
Found football on TV, not born from
Within the soul.
Whither the game ? Where on from
Here…money to smother all else ?
To kill competition. to exclude fans
Who can’t pay the price ?