Football Poets

A fortnight to go to the new season

Suddenly August dawns
On hundreds and thousands
Of freshly painted terraces
Across cantilevered stands
Football calls once again
A stirring in the bowels
Of stadiums in quiet solitude
At the moment
It’s a fortnight to go
Until the Emirates, Etihad
Anfield, Old Trafford,
The Tottenham Hotspur Stadium
How did they get out of jail
Last season?
But they did
The Hill Dickinson Stadium
Everton once again
Masticating on their familiar
Toffees
But modest expectations
And yet it’s the lull before
The storm,
Summer still rippling across
The silent whispers
Of the Anfield Kop
Nothing less than another
Premier League will suffice
Merseyside bricks and mortar
Will demand another street party
At the beginning of next May
For now though
Let those groundsmen
Paint those well manicured
Lines of grass
Smoothly cut white lines
Football gets its yearly
Pre season haircut
Rollers complete their final
Short back and sides
Is the Premier League ready
For another 38 match marathon?
Through the tumultuous seasons
Of woe, fear, then
Explosions of ecstasy
Thick vests, pullovers,
Umpteen layers of wintry garments
It’s that scenario
We may have seen a million times
But never tire of
The winds of change
And yet more energetic evolution
Arsenal must be hoping
For a repeat episode
Of last season
Gunners loading cannons
As we speak
Surely nobody to challenge
Their North London supremacy
Lords of the Manor
At the Emirates
Now that Pep has left
The crown jewels
That dazzled the Premier League
With four titles that left
Football stunned, awe stricken
Spellbound by City’s
Glittering empire
Of palatial pearls of wisdom
This time City will find
Another drawing board
Classical designs
But not the trophies
They used to take for granted
Champions League contenders
Of course
Top four or six
It goes without saying
But no coronation
Or sitting proudly
On those thrones of
Ultimate achievement
As for the promoted trio
From the Championship
Coventry will hope that
Nobody sends them back
From whence they came
Frank Lampard’s Sky Blues
Novices wet behind the ears
But remembering those
Bearded, beloved days
Of Jimmy Hill
Those pioneering days
At Highfield Road
When Willie Carr and Tommy Hutchinson
Ernie Hunt with that witty donkey free kick
During the 1970s when anything went
It was the permissive age
Liberated from the chains
Of dull and dismal
From the late 1950s and
Early Sixties
When games were
Swallowed up by
Gallons of mud and muck
But now Ipswich are
Back among the Premier League’s
High and mighty
Hoping to stay this time
No more trampolining
Between the top flight
And the Championship
If only they could find
Another Sir Alf Ramsey to
Guide them towards the promised land
Of another League title
The Premier League variety
Another John Wark, Trevor Whymark,
Clive Woods, Roger Osbourne,
Paul Mariner, Eric Gates
To send another jet propelled
Dynamic charge winging its
Way to Portman Road
Perhaps another Sir Bobby Robson
It might happen again
And finally Hull City
Now there was a bolt from the blue
After espionage scandals
Last season
When the Saints sinned
And were left only with
A sorrowful confessional
Southampton, please forgive us
But who are Hull to care?
They’re back in the Premier League
Again and this time
The Tigers will be growling
In the tangled undergrowth
Of football’s concrete jungles
Yorkshire’s unfashionables
Middle of the road
When Boothferry Park
Was just an ordinary outpost
Where only mediocrity
Lived next door to
Flaking rust on dangerous
Bucket seats, and Hull
Was just a music hall joke
But now refreshed and revitalised
Back in the Premier League
For Hull, of course
All hell will break loose
But in the nicest possible way
At the top of the bill,
In large, starry letters
Where the Humber meets
The rest of the world
Hull will hope to create havoc
Among the big boys, the prefects
Who boss you around in the playground
All hail to Hull
Hull City FC
Let’s get the new season
Underway, VAR and draught excluders
In perfect alignment
That telegraph pole is offside
Football, not long to go
To the season’s first beginnings
We can hardly wait

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