Football Poets

Missing in London Town

Watched a moc-documentary last Friday night
An old one from Nineteen-Sixty-Six
About a young girl seeking fun and kicks
In the swinging Town of London.

Her name was Cathy Ward
She was young, spirited and free
And from the boredom of suburbia
She made her mind to flee
To the swinging Town of London.

But she soon found herself in trouble
Ended up living out and down
On those unforgiving, filthy, streets
Of a grimy London town
“Cathy Come Home” was the plea
And she did just that eventually.

Watched a film last Saturday night
About a Collier dog called Lassie
Blaming allergies for my tears
When Lassie went off to roam
But when the film had ended up
Lassie – had come home.

Watched a match last Sunday night
Between England and the boys from Rome
A frenzied nation screaming
Pointing at the football
And begging the English kicking it
Could they please now
BRING IT HOME.

It ended up in tears that night
Though two out of three aint bad
Cathy and Lassie both came on home
But the football ending’s sad
Overall the players were brilliant
They let no-body down
But the football is still missing
Somewhere in London Town

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En Route

It’s a sign, they say, the lights turning red as we approach
the cross of Saint George attached to a nearby balcony,
Sweet Caroline on the radio, and those eagerly expectant
moved-down-south jocks bantering and trilling

Okay let’s compromise,
if it’s a boy we’ll call him Mac-Guire.

Across the road

Get the beers in mate, it’s coming home!

Pizzas arranged to spell it out in meat feast and pepperoni,
Asda’s in-store display and that of the Italian –

Cheers, Roberto, touché, and just you wait…

But it’s a sign, he says,
that flag being caught by the wind, flapping round.
And we watch it waving white as the lights change.

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