Poems tagged ‘Beautiful Game’

Premier League review

So here we are at the business end of
The Premier League, City still
But only marginally ahead
Of the Merseyside cruiser
Liverpool, edging nervously
Past the claret and blue
Marauding armies
West Ham beaten but unbowed
Liverpool, a study in pragmatism
Rather than the frills and thrills
Of days gone by
When art deco met art nouveau
Between the Shankly gates
Picturesque brush strokes
By Roger Hunt, Ian St John,
Keegan and Toshack
A collaboration of gifted minds
Wired up telepathically and
Technically, reading each other
Like weighty novels
Now Sane and Salah
Of sophisticated minds
West Ham unravelled
Like a red cotton reel
Sane nips in to score
Keeping Manchester City
Within arms length
City now locked into a
Ferocious argument
With noisy neighbours
United. Please can
We have a little decorum
Gentlemen. It is only a derby
And you can have your ball
Back, when we tell you
Such unnecessary bickering and
Meanwhile at Villa Park
Villa launch the cavalry
And gorge themselves
On yet another mouth watering
Haute cuisine of goals
Steven Gerrard is using his
His honours degree and
Those rich Liverpool qualifications
Villa, heavily influenced by
Gerrard’s Master of Arts
At the Anfield academy
Southampton hit for four
Then Chelsea, blooming like a
An early daffodil ransack
The Burnley vault with
A complete demolition job
At Turfmoor, surely within
Touching distance of top
Three or four will suffice
To be followed dessert and
Pudding at the top table
Of the Premier League elite
At Molineux
Billy Wright would have
Been horrified at the collapse
Of Wolves modern day icons
Who abandon their post
Yesterday at the hands of
A Palace take over
Where the flunkeys and
Servants help themselves
To rich pickings
Patrick Viera’s remembering
His Arsenal studies
And patient tuition
Under Wenger’s scholarly
Now Viera gives us
A revolutionary era
And two goals at the Wolves
Mid table respectability, it’s
Certain and definite
Then the Foxes of Leicester
Hunt in the way that predators do
Foraging and scavenging through
The brittle fragility of Leeds
Now stripped of Bielsa
Who thought he had radical
Leanings but sacked when
Over ambitious theories
Were rumbled by the humble
Of the Premier League great
Leicester back in the limelight
Top ten finish without a doubt
Finally both Newcastle and Norwich
Almost gobbled up by relegation hounds
But paddling furiously against the drop
Eddie Howe’s Geordie black and white
Stripes, another pint of intoxication please
Barman or woman, a rich foaming glass
Of victory over the Seagulls of Brighton
St James Park will survive the scars
And ravages of battles against the
Fall back into the Championship
And finally, sadly, impending doom
Norwich City, unsure of their bearings
Neither good or bad, too good for the
Championship lower orders but clearly
Unsuited for dinner jacketed gatherings
And champagne quaffing at Premier
League tables of gold but only silver
Cutlery, when Preston and Ipswich
Are visitors at another buffet
Brentford Bees full of honeyed
Intentions . This is their first time
In the top flight
Debut season, wet behind the ears
But frightening the life of
Canaries in a coalmine
Sliding back from whence
They came
So refreshing to see
Christian Eriksen
Among the Brentford
Nylons again

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Touchline Shouting

Touchline shouting, that’s all I ever hear,
I’m so confused and filled with fear.
I’m only ten years old and football should be fun,
But with all this noise I don’t know which way to run.
“Get back in defence!” my manager shouts.
Dad shouts, “Get up front and deal with these louts!”
Loud mouth supporter, who knows all the rules.
(He takes the rest of us for fools)
Shouts, “What are you doing lad? Your head’s in a spin!”
Is it any surprise, with all this din?

I am only a boy, so why do you all try to destroy, what I’d love to enjoy?



© Simon Icke


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Please Gamble Responsibly

Since when did I need to take a bet to enjoy
the beautiful game? Yet it’s everywhere I look.
Betting company logos splashed across players’
chests, scrolling endlessly on the hoardings pitch-side,
occupying whole pages of match day programmes
and constantly popping-up on live stream TV.

Please Gamble

Do I need some has-been actor, coach, player,
national treasure telling me it’s more fun to bet
in-play? Concentrating on the action it seems
is not enough; I should also make a wager
on which player will score first, and how, with what part
of his anatomy, his foot, his head or shoulder


or on how many assists, bookings, corners, free
kicks, penalties, offsides, red cards or shots there will be.
The full ninety minutes reduced to numbers, odds
that ensure there is only ever one winner,
the reason why new punters are offered free bets.
Do you remember when we went to watch them play?

When the fun stops, stop.

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Game of Beauty

Game of Duty:
take your pick, either or both, provided great drama
bettered again just days later
by ‘Pool beating Barca
only unbelievably
the drama ratcheted up even more, the following night
as Spurs slipped 3 goals behind on aggregate, versus Ajax
and then we witnessed, the mother of all comebacks
and the sight of an Argentinian hard-man crying
for there could be no denying
that Pochettino, has worked miracles
as has Klopp –
so who will be King of the Crop?
who is it, on 1st June
will make us swoon
and in the media zones
ascend to the Line of Thrones?!?

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Mirth Mayhem & Magic

These groaning bones of life
With chill upon this winter earth
In search of little solstice
And a spruce of football mirth

Keep us from the devil
And his tackling for the soul
For there’s glory in those football boots
Puer grace in every goal

God love you William Shankly
And the truth that hued your team
God hold the hand of Maradona
God bless the head of William Dean

Oh, my well-worn match-day memories
Lo, the pitch of fading green
Fire my heart brimmed up emotion
With the joy that football brings.

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An Ode to Football When

Sunday league was played between pints and net-
less posts by monosyllabic binsmen
managed by the Local’s former-youth-prospect
barman. When metatarsals bowed bombing
water-clogged Mire Ultramax takedowns,
leaving cross-bars quivering and strikers

wilted in the marsh. Studs akin to croc
teeth, ripping through pitches and shin pads. Lads
cupping their palms—blackened fingernails— scooping
mats of mud from divots in knees. Players
and the Loyals alike plucked pints from pubs
with names deserving of their royalty.

When all were Royal and paid in piss and
gave blood for that lager-poisoned piss.


World Cup Winning Captains

Maradona magician with a neat sleight of hand
Moore quite immaculate the emperor commands
Beckenbauer libero the pitch in his boots
Zoff a colossus even Caesar salutes
Deschamps so graceful gave sight to the blind
Casillas Saint Iker left others behind
Cafu showed the devil a clean pair heels
Nasazzi wore boots with invisible wheels
Ramos for glory and never for fame
Walter a rock who harnessed the rain
Sawa an icon the beautiful game.

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Source: https://footballpoets.org/news/poem-tags/beautiful-game/