Poems tagged ‘Football’
Spare a thought for Crawley Town
Let’s take a pause for breath
Spare a thought
For those in distress and
Under duress
Football’s lone and forlorn voice
Whimpering in the corner
Like a neglected child
Who may have been completely
Forgotten about
Prostrate on the ground
Sniffling into its handkerchief
No sweets for you today
Little Crawley Town
Are bottom of the League
League Two, in the modern currency
Crying into their beer
Robbed and stolen of all
Worldly belongings
Or that’s how it must feel
Staring out of the window
With nothing but solitude
To haunt their savaged soul
Crawley Town
Now firmly marooned in
The loneliest river bed
Even the Sussex kingfishers
Have little in the way of sympathy
Nobody to turn to in their
Moment of greatest need
And valued friendship
The gulls are just delighted
To be beside the coastal dramas
Wallowing in Crawley’s misfortune
Or maybe not
Because we feel their pain
Recent newcomers to
Football’s cruel and merciless
Fickle finger of fate
But now Crawley are sadly adrift
Losing their bearings
No sign of human compassion
Because who cares about the
Team who could have been
And yet not now
Crawley, privately sobbing
Into estuaries of tears
Like that heartbroken sailor
Who may be lost out at sea
Waving frantically to shore
And demoralised by time
That stood still for ages
Little Crawley
Nobody gave them a damn
Fight for your own survival
For once it was Workington and Barrow
Who slouched miserably out of the
Old Fourth Division
Like downtrodden tramps
Bodies broken, only the
Streets with no name
Shuffling from one park bench
To the next
Idly and aimlessly
Lend Crawley a dime
Just for a simple cup of coffee,
Crawley seeking just a simpering smile
For down in the dark and dingy basement
At the bottom of the pile
It’s the survival of the fittest
Cold shouldered by
The high and mighty
Those with mammoth millions in the bank
Who barely acknowledge their existence
Harsh, of course it is
But Crawley will battle
For their right
To whoever they want to be
Because we still love them
And we will remember them
On their birthday and
St Valentines Day
Cards with roses
For the Reds naturally
Down by the Broadfield Stadium
They count their pennies and pounds
And wonder if, possibly,
Fortunes will change
Financially fraught now
And yet one day Arsenal, Liverpool,
Manchester United and City
Will walk elegantly into their life
Welcoming them in like
Some glorious apparition
That now seems joyfully real
And yet Crawley Town
Like a destitute wastrel
Wandering through forgotten alleyways
And along gritty pavements
But they assuredly
Will one day find their place
At the top table
Kings at the head of
The banqueting suite
Of the Premier League
If not now then sometime soon
Wishful thinking
But Crawley can
You may be sure of that
Because football hugs tenderly
Its troubled souls
With the warmest embrace
Crawley Town will always
Be the best
The Nations League- not again
Football has done it again
Crashing back down towards
The land of irrelevance
It’s the international break folks
And you’ll never guess
Where its compass has taken us
Yes folks, it’s the Nations League
That’s right
You heard it correctly
After the American and Canadian
Heartbreak city of World Cup
Woes and wailings
Where semi finals
Once again dragged England
Down into the dark chambers
Of what might have been
It’s another competition
Another group qualifying
Whitehall farce
Yet more ventures into
The world of the obscure
And inexplicable
The Nations League?
What on earth are
We supposed to make of that
Stupefying anti climax
It may just as well be
The same page from
The same book
England enter the unknown
Or maybe this does lend itself
To music hall comedy,
Satire and mockery
England meet the world champions
Yes it is ridiculous
And barely credible
Spain! Yes that
Beautiful piece of porcelain
We were all privileged to watch
During a World Cup summer
Spain, that well varnished
Mahogany cabinet,
A Victorian classic that
Sits exquisitely in the
Corner of your living room
Polished to perfection
But this time it’s
England against Spain
In the Nations League
Whoopee! We can hardly wait
A sweet fragrance of indifference
We simply don’t care
Hits us between the eyes
Apathy before kick off, half time
And don’t forget full time
We might watch the game
In our local boozer
Intoxicated by its fumes
Of utter insignificance
At least in the opinion
Of perhaps football’s purists
Who’d much rather do
The late night shopping expedition
Or just wander around Wembley way
Pretending to be interested
But it’s true
Thomas Tuchel’s boys
Are back on the international scene
And still Tuchel is haunted
By huge errors of judgement
Against Argentina
Some of us may take a rain check
On this one
The alternative has to be
A Netflix film
What a logical distraction
Or does AI already know
The result
It’s a fair point
But to misquote the Beeb
What has the Nations League ever
Done for us?
That’s paellas all around us
Let the matador flourish
The cape
It’s happening shortly
England against Spain
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
It could be a trio in Europe.
It could be the perfect jazz trio
A clean sweep of European perfection,
English football at its zenith
Arsenal, European champions tomorrow
Against the might of PSG?
Villa and Crystal Palace
In carnival moods and mannerisms
Palatial Palace
Perched on the purple patches
Of that elusive European trophy
Pinching themselves
Have they really done it?
Yes indeed of course
They have
Undoubtedly so
And then holding aloft
The Euro Conference trophy
Now the Palace butlers
And flunkeys will be
Polishing the silverware
And celebrating deep
Into the summertime solstice
Right up to
The longest day in mid June
When the Stonehenge pilgrims
Greet the setting sun
With wondrous warmth
And captivating cordiality
South London will be
Telling their grandchildren
About those preening peacocks
Of Palace pride and poise
No longer the Palace of old
When the thrones of royalty
Yielded no more than
Second and Third Division championships
And Big Mal, Malcolm Allison
Could only puff on ancient Havanas
And flaunt fedoras
That were cheap imitations
From John Collier shop windows
Then Terry Venables stooped to conquer
With the team of the Eighties
And then discovered only Vince Hillaire,
Jerry Murphy, Mick Flanagan, Peter Taylor
And Dave Swindlehurst
Were simply flattering to deceive
But now Palace are in European
Fantasy land, Palace write
Their names in historic feats
Of European magnificence
Villa clutch their Europa League
Shining silverware
And aesthetically pleasing they were
Almost a throwback
To that stupendous night
Against the giants of Bayern Munich
When Peter Withe almost casually
Headed the home winner
And Aston Villa ruled Europe
Rather than Liverpool
Who thought they had a monopoly
On European Cup nights of
Gold medals and David Fairclough
Thought he was the supersub
From Merseyside’s masterclasses
But well done English football
We wish Arsenal the best tomorrow
An idyllic season
For the Premier League
And that can never be denied.
Hide behind the sofa
So here we are
On the home straight,
Heading powerfully towards
The seasons end
Those contrasting fortunes
Light and dark shades
Down but not out
We can win this League
And survive by a point or two
Flying past the furlongs
To quote equine terminology
The final push
Towards the finishing post
Premier League, now
Nervy and nerve racking
Gripped by a neurosis
It can never explain
It’s jittery, gut wrenching
And that’s only
The relegation struggle
The scrap for survival
Transistor radios by the ready
On feverish terraces
On the last day of the season
Cold sweats washing across
Agitated faces, fans
Wracked and twisted with
Horror, terror
Oh stop the season
We want to get off this
Treadmill, our heads
Are spinning
Please can we have another
Season in the Premier League
No more Championship or
Heroes anymore
Yes we remember those lyrics
From the punk vernacular
Of the giddy heights of the
1970s, with a variation on
A theme
Leeds United inching towards
Premier League safety
At the Theatre of Dreams
United, now top of the bill
In contention for trips
Into Western and Eastern Europe
Manchester United, Europe bound
Next season, quite possibly
But last night, out of kilter
Almost drained by the
Stamina sapping trials and tribulations
Worn down by the tiring travails
Of one match after another
38 games of toil and drudgery
Saturday from early morning
To late night showings
At Sunday’s footballing Odeon
And almost incessantly
Through the weekend
All the way through to
Sunday tea time
By which time most of us
Have switched off, zoned out
A surfeit of football,
Football indulging in
Stomach churning and indigestible
Feasts, greed and gluttony
At every stage and narrative
Night and day
Football for breakfast, tea
And luncheon vouchers
Ah, how we remember those
Will Arsenal finally silence the
Snipers and cynics
Who think they’ll blow it again?
City breathing fire down
The Gunners necks
Once again
This is becoming too
Repetitive for words
An occupational hazard
Londoners though
Would love to see
Premier League trophies
In the ornamental cabinets
Of football’s finest furniture
Surely Arsenal will do it
This time and none other
Because this is their season
They won’t be thwarted
It has to be theirs
And then they become aware
Of World Cup idealists
And dreamers,
Summer is looking for
Its smartest clothes
Suits to fit,
Designer shirts
On patriotic parade
Thomas Tuchel’s England
Exhausted by the domestic
Hectic, frantic hurly burly
Fancied as one of the
Favourites, winners
Finally after 60 years
We’ve been singing that song
For as long as War and Peace
Decades of rejection and dejection
Quarter finals, semi finals
But never world champions
On the threshold of thrilling
And thunderous victory
England always seem to promise
And almost reach out for
The Jules Rimet trophy
But then we always fall short
Wobbling on the high wire
Before crashing down to earth
Oh how close we were
Don Revie, Ron Greenwood
Sir Bobby Robson, even
Glen Hoddle and then
The admirable, no holds barred
Era of Kevin Keegan
Who threw English inhibitions
Into the bin
And went for it
Carefree and
Daringly demonstrative
But then walked after
The Germans had closed
The old Wembley
Capello, Erikssen, Venables,
Whole hearted, sincere and trustworthy
Committed to the cause
So promotion and relegation
Issues still to be
Clarified, simplified
Followed by England and Scotland
During football’s
Summertime carnivals
Never forget our Scottish friends
In World Cup engagement parties
Fizzing and frothing beers
In English and Scottish beer gardens
Before exploding into
Ecstatic fountains of joy
And yet it’s been 60 years
Of woe, woebegone tears
Of frustration and if onlys
We can hear fate giggling
Behind England’s wounded warriors
Throughout the decadent decade
Of the 1970s, then the
Energetic 1980s, 1990s
England, World Champions
Though, it could be our year
In New York, New York
So good they named it twice
Uncle Sam’s happiest hosts
The Big Apple awaits
With commercial feeding frenzies
But first things first
Arsenal to win the Premier League
And City to snatch back
The FA Cup,
Champions League, PSG perhaps
Or even the Gunners
Our pulses are racing
The final chapters are
Underway
Winners and losers
It could go either way
The Beautiful Game- it’s so annoying- at times
White sprays, aerosol, VAR
Elbows offside, Toenails onside
Draught excluders
Translate please
It could hardly get any worse
Premier League
Football
This is shameful
Commentators galore
Now where would football be
Without commentators?
High pitched, falsetto,
Pizzicato or contralto
Or just like a gentle stream
On a day of measured words
Serenely gliding towards
The safe harbour of full time
Firstly, there was Brian Moore
The personification of
Verbal accuracy
Always poised and On the Ball
A giant among his
Admiring colleagues
On the TV gantry
Always available after
The Sunday roast
When chickens in baskets
Gave us our daily menu
Of the Big Match
Football’s most
Honourable gentleman
Among equals
Brian Moore,
Smooth as a lake
In high summer
Professionalism to his
Fingertips, nothing
But the best
By his own admission
Excitable as a kid
On Christmas Day
When the Big Match was
Still young but virile
But then delivering
The arts and crafts
Of the game’s finest fabrics
A voice modulated,
Always striking the right balance
A voice oiled with honesty
Perfect impartiality
Then there was Gerry Harrison
Comfortable among the fens
And sprawling farmlands of
Ipswich Town and Norwich
But privately a Hammer
Non judgmental and perfectly
Judicious, weighing every word,
Goal and pass and tackle
Rather like the man
Behind the cheese counter
At Sainsbury’s during its
1960s pomp
There was Hugh Johns
Delighting in the moment
Of that goal bulging glory
When Wolves and Villa were
Were middle of the road
In the old First Division,
School boy enthusiasm,
Hugh always knew
When John Richards or Ray Graydon
Were dictating the
Tempo, tenor, grace and
Pace of a game
Shrewd and knowledgeable
Streetwise at all times
But then shrieking with
The sheer elation of a man
Who would have given anything
To wear the old gold or claret and blue
Then there was Gerald Sinstadt
Throat rising to a stirring crescendo
Power and authority
In the lands of Everton, Manchester City
And United, Granada TV’s greatest
Then there was
Martin Tyler, still an icon
Behind the Sky microphone,
Wisdom and assurance when it mattered most
And still in control
But never over egging the pudding
The man who once delivered City’s
First Premier League coronation
And Aguero was bellowed
With operatic conviction
Sustained grandiosely
Boy, could he hold a note
You could hear the Tyler tonsils
In the Peak District
Who could ever forget?
Of course there was Motty
John Motson, how we miss him
The man who must have known
Every statistic and fact
The game has ever known
Stating the obvious
But quietly and modestly
Conveying the game’s
Most picturesque beauty
The sheepskin coat
Beyond compare
Mannered and polite
With the coolness of a
Cucumber, a studied detachment
From the hurly and burly
Muddied but marvellous
Madness that embraced
The Beautiful Game
But how we loved Motty
Joined forces with
Barry Davies, like
A learned college lecturer
Playing with words and then
Moulding them like clay
Very interesting Franny Lee
Impeccable phraseology
Precise as the stopwatch
And lest we forget
Today’s Sam Matterface,
Clive Tyldesley, Guy Mowbray
Jonathan Pearce and Steve Wilson
Totally absorbed in the game’s
Most creative coal faces
Dipping deep into their Thesaurus
Words, analogies and similes
Metaphors of perfect creation
Describing the game’s frantic
Fandangos with charm, wit,
Humour, that’s a must
Of course caressing the
Game’s sensitivities and subtleties
A hint of bias at times
Surely not though
As if football was something
To be treasured
Something for the leisured classes
Football commentators hey
Aren’t they outstanding?
Past and present
They speak on our behalf
Happy New Year
So a New Year dawns
Hours away from
Football poised to celebrate
Its seasonal beauty,
The cement in its foundations
Its life force
Those passionate supporters
Like disciples on the road
To World Cup, USA, Mexico, Canada
But maybe not destined
For the road to Damascus
Raise a glass of port
To its rebels and renegades,
The monied classes
Millionaires row
The Premier League awash
With grasping, greedy
Souls who think they’re
Above it all
The rest are just beneath them
Hardly worthy of mention
A hint of champagne tonight
For the high rollers and
Gin soaked palaces
But never forget the Grimsby’s
Rochdales, Port Vales, Barrow,
Salford, Oldham and Plymouth too
For they are the unsung and
Unheralded, Never ones
To blow their trumpet
Mocked by those who find
Their company so degrading
But tonight as Arsenal
Sit pretty at the top
And City keep badgering,
Pestering North London,
While Liverpool search
For remnants of last season’s
Premier League winning form
We look forward to what might
Be the elusive formula
For winning World Cups
There has to be a chemical element
Sodium and potassium
Maybe not compatible
Next year in the Big Apple,
Our friends from across the pond
With a drop of sweetest maple syrup
From the Canadian Rockies
Mexico, we’ve been there before
But football on the brink of
A New Year, still football’s
Fondest Auld Lang Syne,
Arsenal, Manchester City
Perhaps a Villa by the sea
In next May’s reckoning
Premier League title winners
We shall see
Harry Redknapp
Oh Harry, Harry,
You were and always
Will be, poetry in motion
So there we were sailing
The great oceans and seas
Of this mighty and lovely world
And then suddenly you transcended every
Churning wave and then
The softest ripples of the
Homeward journey
Aboard the timeless
Sky Princess cruise vessel
Harry Redknapp
Rather like the emperor
of his East End empire
Aboard the handsome ship
Of our wildest dreams
Once again my lovely wife Bev and I
Saw you
Literally within minutes of taking
Our place
After the Hammers had taken down
The Toon of Newcastle
You were there, wandering through
The meandering cabins and corridors
No airs or graces, no showbiz affectations
Never the slightest hint of arrogance
Or the pretentious posturing of
Those who may think the public are
Just commoners or peasants
Harry, the prince of Poplar
Born and bred within breathing distance
And sound of Bow Bells
Our Harry Redknapp,
Your Harry Redknapp.
Footballing royalty
Pie and mash in his every
Gastronomic lunch and tea
Blood vessels throbbing with claret and blue
Red corpuscles pumping
With Upton Park nostalgia
Dashing and daring winger for the Irons
When football had
Just simplicity and innocence
For meagre rewards
But none cared, not one bit
No razzamatazz or pizazz
Sixpences and shillings rather
Than millions of pounds
Just after Grandstand and Dixon of Dock Green
Then Harry spent his twilight years
Beside the seaside
Cherry picking with Bournemouth
Before management beckoned
And Dean came Courting
The Vitality Stadium
Harry will never forget the day
He met Ron of Manchester United
And nobody gave them even
A sniff of a chance
But Harry seized that distant
January day over 40 years ago
And Bournemouth then in
The lower divisions
Shocked the country with those
Giant killing feet of yesteryear
And Bryan Robson’s Manchester United
Were trodden on quite mercilessly
With the utmost bravery and virility
United driven out of the FA Cup
By Harry’s Bournemouth
Then his boyhood club came calling
And Harry joined Bonzo
Billy Bonds, yet another legend
In the West Ham dug out
Before bossing the club
He’d always loved
Then there was Pompey
And Portsmouth where Harry
Finally got his hands on
The jug eared FA Cup
By now Spurs had turned their radar
On Harry’s budding reputation
As a manager of repute
And substance
Suddenly there was
Transfer window day
At the end of January
And there was Harry again
Pulling up almost
Dutifully and appropriately
In his Land Rover or Range Rover
Down came the window
And Harry offered
The classical literature of the day
Harry Redknapp
A legendary
Christmas sackful of quotes
For the redtops and those
Who soak themselves in
The lyrical fountains of
The Telegraph, Times
And yes the I paper
Harry Redknapp
Riveting raconteur
Oozing the charm offensive
From day one
Always generous,
Chirpy and chatty
Knightly chivalry
It was an honour to be
In your company
You’re a footballing legend
A gentleman and scholar
My Account
About This Site
Welcome to Football Poets -- a club for all football poets, lovers of football and lovers of (alternative) poetry. Discover poets in every league from respected internationals at the top of their game to young hopefuls in the school playground.
Publish your football poems here and then discuss them with your team mates and fans. We're archived by The British Library, so your masterpieces are in the safe hands of a world-class keeper. What a result!
Latest Poems
Crispin Thomas
3rd November 2026
joe morris
31st October 2026
kevin halls
30th October 2026
Clik The Mouse
28th October 2026
joe morris
25th October 2026
Jason Prasad
24th October 2026
joe morris
15th October 2026
joe morris
9th October 2026
Alex Saynor
8th October 2026
Clik The Mouse
7th October 2026
Crispin’s Corner
In Memoriam
Kick It Out & Christmas Truce
Latest Comments
3rd November 2026 at 10:23 pm
Hi Crispin,
How are you doing mate? I was just curious to know whether you were watching Countryfile on Sunday evening and that programme devoted to your Forest Green Rovers. Great watch.
Best wishes
Joe
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24th October 2026 at 2:31 pm
Ha!! Just brilliant! I can hear this being sung. So funny!
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24th October 2026 at 2:28 pm
I love this verse as I know exactly that feeling of living in a fantasy while kicking the ball as a kid. Makes me wonder what fantasy world professional players live in when they dribble, pass and shoot? Hopefully it’s doesn’t always feel like routine job fired them
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28th July 2026 at 9:40 pm
Hi Denys. Thanks for your kind words. I could have mentioned Dixie Dean but decided not to.
Best wishes, mate
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26th July 2026 at 3:47 pm
Great knowledge of Everton history, Joe.
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23rd July 2026 at 6:54 pm
Hi Jason,
Sorry I forgot to congratulate you on your excellent poem as well.
Keep well
Joe
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23rd July 2026 at 6:43 pm
Hi Jason,
Thanks so much for your kind words about Kevin Keegan, a footballer of legendary status and deeply missed.
Best wishes
Joe
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23rd July 2026 at 12:01 pm
Thank you, Crispin. I will defo encorage my bunch to contribute and will of course clear it with staff room.
Many thanks
Jase
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22nd July 2026 at 6:48 pm
Great poem Jase.
You are a man of my own heart …
And great to hear that you your students poems from our site.
Keep on and more please
if ever some of your students write anything suitable for here and most importantly they give you permission to publish them, you can always do so under your name referencing their names and the school..and year.
Best Crispin
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22nd July 2026 at 10:29 am
I think this is best thing I have read so far about the legend. Thanks
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