Poems tagged ‘Matriarchal Love’

Undaunting Support.

“Go on, get stuck in,
Don’t be scared, a the likes of him?
Yer twice the bleating size, a that nippy little runt?
Try n pass the bleating thing
Not backwards, over here on the wing
Strewth! Watching this, is proper giving me the hump?”

“Wisha, ain’t that widder woman, got some mouth?”,
Deccy whispered tentatively, he daren’t shout,
Fearful of a vitriolic volley being aimed at him,
“Stopper, centre-half? Couldn’t stop a draught
Oi Youse! Don’t let the little runt wriggle past,
Wassamatter wiv ya, lost yer bottle? Get stuck in”.

“Oi lady, lady, give that north and south a rest
Young fella’s, out there, are giving of their best”,
“Oh, and who the fluff might you be?”, Deccy heard her scoff
“Fella trains that team to enjoy having a kick about
Maybe try n cheer them on, if you’ve got to shout?”,
Deccy, didn’t catch her reply, though the sentence ended…off?

Fast forward…Craven Cottage, by The Thames,
This widder woman, yes that’s right, her again
Screaming like a banshee at her team to, “Get stuck in”,
Few other choice words reverberating ageing stands
Ensued a crowd of heard it all before old hands,
Perched in The Cottage, acquired a mischievous grin.

Fulham F.C, at the time, short of an old pound note
Finding their club, a proper struggle to keep afloat
Due to a shortage of cash, decide to blood a fledgling pro
Well, the dogs abuse from the start of play
Dished out on what should have been a proper blinding day?
Caused a seasoned ex-pro, in the dug-out, serious woe.

“Ask our kit-man to nip over and have a word
With that tongue a blazing mean looking bird”,
Tell her to zip it shut, or I’ll call a match-day cop?”,

The kit-man nervously saunters back
Ears ringing post a quite profound verbal attack,
“Sorry gaffer, only caught every other sentence, ending…off”.

Moving on…we’re at our usual rendezvous
Waiting on a mini-bus, for a soiree to Man Yoo
A joke, a smoke, a tepid tea, perched on a wall,
“Oi Declan, where are you lot, off to then?
Bit early ain’t it, for you, twenty-five to ten?
Geezer spends his day in bed, doing sweet fluff all?

“Hello missus, I resemble that last remark
Off to Old Trafford, on a jolly, maybe have a laugh?
There’s a spare seat, fancy a day with us on a mini bus?”,
“What? Go and watch Chelsea, are you sure?
Bleating pile of (put politely) old horse manure?
Rather be over at The Cottage, though times is tough”.

“Can’t tempt you to come savour real class?
On a pukka pitch, sporting lush green grass?
Instead of a field of mud, scarcely a sod atop?”,
Just then our mini-bus arrived…bang on time
On waving goodbye, I saw her discreetly mime,
Two fingers in the air, sentences ending…off.

Time rolled on as time tends to do
Though Deccy n me, didn’t sit in the same pew
Every so often after, the game, we’d arrange a meet
I’m listening to the scores one day indoors
The phone rings, an excited Deccy roar’s,
“Switch on the telly, quick, see them just won the league?”

There in the middle of a wildly exuberant shot
Dear reader I kid you not?
Stood a face I knew, but whose whereabouts I didn’t know?
The slated centre half, beside the widder woman, (his mum!)
Couldn’t control her rabid expletive ridden tongue?
On a council playing field, or Craven Cottage, years ago.

Those who crack on regardless, and succeed
To reap rewards, are deemed fortunate indeed
More so from a dodgy start, than a bestowed toff?
After all, isn’t there something admirable to savour?
About a fella being driven, albeit by a gobby mater?
Ain’t afraid of abruptly ending her sentences…off?


Stay safe, come what may, and have a good day.

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Source: https://footballpoets.org/news/poem-tags/matriarchal-love/