Football Poets

Urs Meier

¶ 1 Leave a comment on verse 1 0 The ref blew the whistle; the “goal” would not stand,
And at once all the embers of fury were fanned.
No matter, as neutral supporters conceded,
That Ricardo in goal had been clearly impeded.
No matter that all across Europe that night,
The decision was seen and accepted as right.
Maybe their keepers get too much protection,
But the disallowed goal stood up well to inspection.

¶ 2 Leave a comment on verse 2 0 Except, quelle surprise, in the old Septic Isle,
Which soon was awash with a torrent of bile.
The tabloids, omnipotent judges and jury,
Sounded the clarion call of sheer fury,
And led the attacks on the poor Swiss official,
By claiming that he’d been adjudged prejudicial.
(Although, that contentious decision aside,
He took quite a difficult game in his stride)
And stooping to new depths, the venomous press
Did publish the referee’s e-mail address,
Inciting a barrage of hate-fuelled abuse,
That turned the official into a recluse.

¶ 3 Leave a comment on verse 3 0 Did he deserve vicious vilification,
Terrorised by all the dregs of one nation?
Incited by laughing young men with no morals
Who spread their vile poison and rest on their laurels,
Whose only decisive and questioning thought
Is how to increase column inches of sport.
And so they have dragged his good name through the dirt,
Not caring if he or his family are hurt,
And the cool light of day simply cannot placate
Xenophobia brimming with self-righteous hate.

¶ 4 Leave a comment on verse 4 0 For committing offences, a player can be banned,
Punished whenever things get out of hand.
A footballing lout with a havoc-strewn trail
Can be fined or deported or end up in jail.
But it’s perfectly clear that there is no redress
When an innocent man is attacked by the press.
When the hackles are raised, there is really no stopping
Those tousle-haired hooligans laughing in Wapping.
By turning a good man into a pariah,
Once more, English football is dragged through the mire.

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