1 Leave a comment on verse 1 0 Cloying gluepot, or bone-hard dry.
Grass on the flanks, a luxury.
Pockmarked with stud prints – it
Looks like a battlefield, and a
Battlefield it most certainly is.

2 Leave a comment on verse 2 0 Nets strung loosely, sqaure posts
Like at Hampden. No Roar here though.
Just the odd exclamation from a trail
Of onlookers – as they roundly
Barrack the linesman and the referee.

3 Leave a comment on verse 3 0 Half time: half an orange, half a fag.

4 Leave a comment on verse 4 0 The sky, the scenery, the surrounds
All a grey morass. Colour confined
To red and blue jerseys, flitting angrily
Around the object of desire as it balloons
And bounces, as remote as the sun.

5 Leave a comment on verse 5 0 Figures in a Lowry landscape, attrition
Across the greasy ground. Which gets
Greasier as rain falls, relentless, hard, wet.
No goals, no glory – only graft to be gained.
The gluepot wins out. A stalemate of sorts.


Source: http://footballpoets.org/poems/wasteland/