Poems tagged ‘World Cup.’
60 years ago today
It was 60 years ago
To the day
Since England proudly
Occupied that iconic spot
At the centre of the universe
We embraced the World Cup
Clutched it to our bosom
Never ever forgotten
Finally the world was our oyster
Far across the churning oceans
Raging seas, distant lighthouses
Then back in the sleepy villages
Where Maypole dancers gathered
For their regular convention
Of joyful feet, throwing
Caution to the wind
Mum, dad, auntie, uncle,
Niece, aunt, boy and girl
We’ve done it
We’d won the World Cup
There you are
You never thought it would
Happen but it did
Finally after 60 years
Of blood, sweat and tears
Demoralising drudgery
And now in hindsight
We look back on those
Eternally triumphant years
And wonder if once again
We’ll ever do it one more time
Before civilisations move
Into future centuries
But at the moment few us much care
Because we’ve had enough
Of broken promises
Agonising quarter
And semi finals
Missed penalties
Grazing crossbars
Clipping posts
If only, conjecture
Was a huge conspiracy
Those pitiful permutations
A vast treasure trove
Of excuses, the weather
Kept playing us offside
But in 1966, the World Cup
Belonged in our dressing room
Our living room
In front of black and white
Goldfish bowl TV sets
And David Coleman
Looked at his sartorial best
Booted and suited
He must have known that
England would finally win
The World Cup for
The very first time
And do you know what?
He was right
After all those decades
Of tortured, distorted
Visions of nothing
Desolate concrete bowls
Wind swept terraces
Creaking and groaning
Desperation and desolation
Cried into its pale ale
And a thousand cups of Rosy Lee
Tea for nobody in particular
But the memories of 1966
Keep us warm and secure,
Cosy and re-assured
Like those snug pubs and
Taverns where soaring
Crescendos of love, joy
Hope, community and
Neighbourhood solidarity
Flowed and rushed
Down from timeless waterfalls
Through the forests and valleys
Yes England, it was our turn
To hold the back page
World Cup winners,
Sir Alf Ramsey so modest
Emotionless and self effacing
He played it all down
Moore, Stiles, the Charlton brothers,
Hunt, Peters, Wilson, Cohen,
Hurst, Banks,
It all felt like destiny
The fickle finger of fate
On our side
Three Lions on the Chest
And then the cameras turned
Towards the old Wembley
The marching bands
This historic, unique occasion
Before drama unfolded
Like those intense kitchen sink
Plays for Today
That the BBC so revelled in
Where the social fabric
Of Britain’s domestic
Families and relationships
Came under the forensic spotlight
Saturday night, Sunday morning
Yes this was the case
In 1966, the World Cup
Fell into our hands
Like the best birthday present
Of all time
Street parties multiplied
By the million
Bunting and currant buns
Overcome with indefinable emotions
Flags and banners draped
Across our back street
Like vivid blackbirds,
Swarming across the blue skies
Balletically in motion
It all though seemed like
Too long ago
We lament the loss
And mourn those empty years
When 1966 seemed like
The day it just materialised
On this golden tapestry of
Our lives
Like mum’s delightful washing line
Union Jacks and St George’s
Forever stitched on our minds
Yes England, we can do this one.
Yes once again
England find themselves
On the verge of immortality
Greatness signed, sealed
And delivered
Could we once again
Turn back the clock again
To those halcyon days
Of the Mini, Mary Quant,
Harold Wilson, two TV channels
Black and white
Misty monochrome memories
Dripping from 1966
When as a child of nature
You were oblivious to
To those formative years
Of cots, dummies and
Farley’s Rusk tea times
When England had barely
Reached its euphoric adolescence
But last night England
Stuck patriotic flags
On a metaphorical Mount Everest
Victory was a joyous release
A cathartic explosion
Of Three Lions on the Chest
Norway you can keep your trolls,
Your flickering Northern Lights
That horribly misguided commentator
Who kept up that hysterical rant
About Winston Churchill
Who always fought them on the beaches
Anthony Eden, a political titan
Who always used to speak the language
Of familiar, 10 Downing Street rhetoric,
Lord Beaverbrook, formidable
Fleet Street heavyweight
And then Lord Nelson
An incomparable Admiral of the Fleet
Who always saved our bacon
So Norway stop gloating and rowing
Over land and sea
In your collective displays
Of Viking vitality
Haaland, this may be the time
To stop banging that drum
For Norse mythology
Is now a thing of the past
Consigned to the dustbin of history
For last night England belonged
To our England
Bellingham brace
Harry always the finest
Yet leggy and awkward at times
Equality for ages
Until the charred embers
Of injury time
Then Hey Jude
A homage to Julian Lennon
But last night
England’s national anthem
Semi final against
Argentina
We can do this one.
England, dear England
England dear England
Our land of lazy, languid
Wind turbines
Past turbulent highways
And byways
Rushing and racing
Past hyperactive motorways
Chocolate box villages
Timeless as florins and groats
From many centuries past
Yesterday the Beautiful Game
Embodied our dreams and hopes
Where cosy cottages
Sleep peacefully
Under the reassuring mid-day sun
Suddenly the post office
Next to the church hall
Show faith and ardent religion
To an expectant country
Not far from England’s significant
Medieval castles
On hillsides that stand
Like proud sentinels
On magisterial hillsides
England beat Mexico
The World Cup is now
Well and truly alive
With roaring lions on
Our chest
Three of them of course
The balmy, sweltering heat
Of midsummer summits
Shadows lengthening
Admiringly over cricket
Wickets while
World Cup football
Delivers
England’s perfect riposte
To the cynics and naysayers
Who said we couldn’t
Bring it home?
Of course we can
Harry Kane, flawless
As those velvet strips
Of farmland
Where shades and shadows
Dance and glance
Over a thousand windowsills
And twitching lace curtains
In the land of gossipy England
Did you hear it?
Hey Jude does it again
But not over Strawberry Fields
More lethal than a guided missile
Goals in his rampant repertoire
Jude Bellingham scores yet again
England bouncing up and down
Exploding beer gardens
England flush with patriotism
It could be this year of all years
England see off the co-hosts
Of Mexico with a mariachi melody
Early morning full English
Breakfasts were the order of the day
In the Lake District, Peak District,
Chilterns and Quantocks
World Cup football celebrations
Are far more important
But at 3’o clock in the morning
The priority was England’s
Blossoming potential
Guehi, Rice, Gordon,
Kane and Bellingham
Rashford and Saka
Breathing fire and brimstone
Yes we can do this one
In a mesmerising humdinger
At the Azteca
End to end football
Barely able to take a breath
Ding dong
Football as it should be played
Penalties again
The ultimate emotional narrative
England storm into two goal lead
Then find yet more lightning
Before Mexico heave their
Way back into contention
Then Harry Kane
Skipper supreme
Drives home
One of those familiar
Authoritative penalties
No trouble whatsoever
Emphatic signature
Underlined
No way back for Mexico
Surely not
Arguments settled
England home and hosed
But then Mexico wag their tail
It’s 3-2 to England
And we can see paradise
11 minutes of injury time
Feel like two decades
But then the final whistle
Goes and dear Blighty
Have done it,
Over the finishing line
Now for Nordic conquests
Hopefully against Norway
Where the Vikings await
Rowing forcefully towards
Their quarter final date
With Thomas Tuchel’s
Stately galleon
Or perhaps a leisurely
Cruise boat
This could be the match
That finally pushes
England towards the top of the world
That sunlit apogee
Where 60 years of hollow vacuums
Are finally history
Yesterday’s fish and chip paper
Ancient documents
From the Bronze Age
Yes England this is our time
Or maybe not
Norway next
Of course it’ll be hard
And punishing
It always has been
Then there’s Argentina,
France, Spain
So many nations
Of world class heritage
England though
Have been here before
And we know what to do
Roll up those industrious sleeves
Knuckle down to business
Feel the mood at home
And just lift the Jules Rimet Cup
We can do it again
It can’t be rocket science
Or Quantum Physics
Just leave it to Harry Kane
It’s simple as ABC
World Champions again
Better late than never
It has to be England
Hydration break please.
Oh water, water, water
How desperate we are
For a refreshing drop
Of H20 revival
At this latest
World Cup festival
Stop the game immediately
Amid this oasis
Of American, Mexican
And Canada dry
Yes folks,
It’s the hydration break
Only in America
Thirsting for new fangled
Innovation and gimmickry
Water punctuating every
VAR debate, water
Even when it’s just
Surplus to requirements
Madness! What a Whitehall farce
Does anybody fancy a bottle
Of sparkling mineral from
The Highlands of Scotland
Or just tap water?
The choice is yours
So here we are mulling over
The early morning absurdities
of England playing
Well after the midnight hour
While most of us are
Snoozing the night away
In the land of slumber
Fast asleep
Barely able to keep
Our eyes open
But not cocoa
Or Horlicks
Simply determined
To keep awake
No shut eye tonight
Matchsticks, waiter or waitress
Red Bulls all around
For England and Mexico
Make sure the owls
Who live in suburbia
Are well and truly dormant
Several gallons of water
For the extended family
And don’t forget the kids
So that the children
Who Tuchel told us
Should be forced to watch
To the detriment of their
Vital education
Can be well stocked
With gallons of water
Those Mexican bandits
Are used to altitudes
And glorious heat
No sweat, very little exertion
And then the mind reels back
to 40 years ago and
Precisely 60 years ago
When Diego danced and
Then discovered another bossa nova
A flourish of fandangos
Maradona punched above his weight
A cheat, rebel,
Gasping for Evian
The naughtiest of all subversives
Before just disappearing into
A white sheet of England defenders
Peter Reid, Terry Fenwick and Terry Butcher
What audacious genius
From that Argentine prince of
Purple prose from
Wondrous dribbling feet
Insolence joining forces
With outrageous impertinence
No water required then
Argentina unstoppable
World Cup minstrels
Football masquerading as
Ballet
But we’d rather have
A Lucozade or
Possibly a Dr Pepper
Just to maintain our
Energy levels
You have to wonder
Did Nobby, Bobby, Geoff,
Roger, Bobby and Jack Charlton
Ever need the services
Of silver salvers of water
Just to mop fevered brows?
Certainly not
And here’s the omen for
Tomorrow morning
Bobby struck a thunderbolt
At Wembley in 1966
And Mexico were beaten
Hands down
Not even a cup or jug of
Water, water, water
For parched tongues
You never know, though
It could happen
Tomorrow morning at the Azteca
The story so far
So here’s the story so far
Rumblings of discontent
After Croatia and Ghana
Before the Democratic Republic of Congo
Muscled in on English feet
Let’s face it
This was never going to be easy
There were awkward obstacles
At every juncture
We feared as much
It is, after all, England
And we know what that means
Or we think we do
But this is the lumpenproletariat
With the emphasis on the lumpen
For the first hour
England were shocking,
Disjointed as a wobbly shelf
A mantelpiece that keeps dropping
Off the wall
England’s brief rejuvenation
After Croatia
Now in shreds and rags
Tattered and dirty
As an oily cloth
Discarded and left to rot
In your crowded garage
It was almost as if Dracula
Had met Frankenstein
In Sunset Boulevard
Sharp, bloody fangs
Sucking the life out of
England, woe England
For almost an eternity
Rice, Bellingham, Kane,
Guehi, Konsa, Anderson,
Then Saka and Gordon
Had their wings clipped
By the superior suppleness
And nimble athleticism
Of our friends from the Congo
Formerly Zaire
Who were once only narrowly
Squeezed out by bonny Scotland
In the 1974 World Cup,
But how we underestimated Congo
We somehow knew there would be
A twist in the tail
Of course this would be a
Labour of love
For the Three Lions
Congo take the lead
Surprise then stunned amazement
Among an ocean of red, blue and white
On the terraces
English fans pale as the
Proverbial ghost
Drained of all colour
Horrified then mortified
Sulky, sullen and morose
Refusing to register
What had just happened
An air of desperation
And devastation
All hope had gone
Seeping from
Tortured foreheads
But here was the familiar journey
We should have known better
This was not in the first chapter
Now what had happened to
The original manuscript
Stolen by Spielberg?
Surely not
England a goal down
Ad infinitum
Minutes became the half hour
Then the hour
Still reminiscent
Of a thousand slow motion replays
On late night Match of the Days
And Brian Moore’s wonderful Big Match
White statues almost immovable
Grinning gargoyles
Ugly as those prefab buildings
From the 1960s when Britain
Slowly emerged from 50s Austerity
Grimness and poverty
Like old fashioned Victorian schools
Falling apart
Crumbling monuments
In dire need of modern bricks
And mortar
Aching architecture falling
Into obscene obsolescence
No punch, no penetration
Then suddenly Barca’s new signing
Anthony Gordon gingerly trotted on
All change, new dimension
Suddenly England became the winged wonders
Sir Alf so vehemently abhorred
England, powering forward, surging into
Attack rather like the swarming bees
Of a traditional English summer
Electricity switched on
Houston we have ignition
Bellingham startled into life
Racing, darting, dinking, head down
This means business
With 10 minutes to go
Flash Gordon
Drove forward, engine on
Both feet, bamboozling
Deceiving, inviting his
Defender to dance
Before waving farewell to
The Congo back four
Standing the ball up
And then chipping floated cross
To Citizen Kane
Who must have seen this movie
A thousand times
Via 20th Century Fox
But now the 21st century
The Kane neck muscles
Thrust full throttle
And the header was a
Turner or Constable
A vision of artistic solitude
Kane on his own
Unmarked
1-1, parity restored, then
With momentum on their side
Walthamstow’s finest
Shuffled and twisted his body around
Like a man searching
For water in the desert
Then finding a river of gold
On the edge of the
Visitors penalty area
With the neatest of ball control
Kane swivelled and
Hammered then thrashed
The cleanest of shots
It’s in the net
The winner, surely
With minimum of backlift
Low along the ground
But power and direction
Pomp and ceremony
Arise Sir Harry
You’re a star, our saviour
Of Mother England
Always on the spot
England victorious
It was never in doubt
Panama- the less said the better
No cheap jibes about
Hats or canals
Panama must have been
As pleased as punch
England, still as lifeless
As a rotting corpse
Decaying and then
Slowly decomposing
Like some old
Second World War bottle of bleach
Last night, once again
As flat as a pancake
If anything England were
In dire need of the
Root canal treatment
Like pulling teeth
Gnashers and molars
Neglected for years and decades
England through
To the next round, though
With a meeting against
Scotland’s old muckers
From 1974 when Zaire
As they were known then
Once kicked the ball
Away petulantly
Into a West German bierkeller
Held hostage by Hofmeister
And the old Yugoslavia
Ran up a cricket score
With nine of the best
But this time
The Democratic Republic of Congo
Still unknown territory
For England’s red blooded warriors
Never crossing paths
To the best of your knowledge
Still, England not nearly up
To any pace
Stuttering, nervous,
Almost monosyllabic at times
No communication, taciturn
Occasionally
Approaching last night’s fiasco
Like a crab inching back
Into the sea
Livelier than the Ghana game
Gallivanting and getting it
Realising where they were
And what they were supposed
To be doing
Nailing their colours
To the mast
Moving the ball sharply
Like men with a grenade
Determined to blow a hole
Into a Panamanian battleground
But after a lukewarm first half
And nothing but sweet lows
But almost bitter chariots
England, like lumbering tortoises
Refused to come out of the shell
Elliot Anderson possibly pre-occupied
With big money moves to City
Locked in a world of his own
Jude Bellingham, top of the star billing
Nowhere to be seen
Arsenal’s Bukayo Saka
All neat pirouettes and
The feet of Fred Astaire
Winged it on the flank
But ended up in an
Anti climactic tangle
Flattering to deceive
His day will come
Noni Madueke, potentially
A class act
But last night bottom
Of it, maybe teacher
Will issue stern instructions
Konsa protecting the ball with
Much assurance
But never knowingly finding
The incisive pass
At the right time
Then the wonderfully skilful
And richly gifted
Marcus Rashford
A terrifying sight
For opposition defenders
In Barcelona’s La Liga
And plucking a plum of
A goal against Croatia
But last night silent as night
Ghosting through challenges
Like a man who revels in
Haunted castles
All in all England
Still a work in progress
And not nearly as
Worthy of consideration
As future World Champions
100-1 according to the bookies
That sounds about right
England yet to arrive
In the land that still gives
Us Hollywood glamour
And Hydration breaks
Any guesses
Please give Thomas Tuchel’s boys
Gallons of water
Because this one
Is definitely an oasis
Hey Jude hit just the right
Note of Beatles immortality
Bellingham joined
The bus queue of red shirts
Waiting for the double decker
Fares please gentlemen
Corner perfectly swung
Into the mixer
Bellingham’s leg
Lunges forward against
Panama’s panicking posse
A ball floats like a butterfly
Into the net
The marauding masses
Of England’s footballing
Barmy Army
Celebrate grudgingly
Because they know
This one should get better
Yes finally
New York, New York
Even the Statue of Liberty
Might have, you feel sure,
Winked flirtatiously
But even the Rat Pack
And Sinatra would have
Had grounds for complaints
This is not the American dream
For England so far
It’s all safe and
Free of ambition of daring,
Derring do, hurting the opposition
Going for the jugular,
Making them squirm
Even dear Harry Kane
Looked like a man
In desperate need of a
Red Bull energy drink
Gingerly turning defenders
Then remembering that
Here was a man in his 30s
But puffing and sweating profusely
Kane, a solid citizen
Still doing delightful
Orson Wells impressions
But then dropping deeper
And deeper into the
Land of nowhere
Always supporting
The patriotic dream
Yesterday Harry
Stepped up to the mark
Once again
As he always has
It’s in his DNA,
Jude Bellingham,
A force of nature
Irrepressible as the Hudson river
Tricked with
Tantalising tomfoolery
All the way to the by line
Before chipping a nine iron
Into the Panama canal
Of a rapidly declining
Penalty area
Kane rose like
The Kane of Spurs
And now Bayern Munich
Neck muscles flexing
And thrusting
The most unstoppable header
Into the net
2-0, no way back
It’s the knock out round
For England
Now or never
This road has been well trodden
But the pavements do look
Very inviting
It could still end in tears
But Mexico in the last eight
Perhaps and who knows?
But then either Argentina or Brazil
Will surely sweep English dust
Under the carpet
They have in the past
And might do again
While Spain and France
Are champing at the bit
There’s a long, long way to go
For sure, but it
All feels like some
Far off destination where
England’s rusting wheels
Have buckled tragically
There has to be a proper tempo
About Thomas Tuchel’s terriers
We can only hope the Congo
Marks the start of a joyful conga
Around Central Park
Or the timeless melodies of Broadway
England, come out of your hiding place
We know you’re in there.
60 years is still like an aching tooth
Some of us are just
Running out of patience
The Germans and Ecuador
So Germany are human,
Flawed, prone to error
They do have a soft underbelly
Through to the knock out stage
Of World Cup fiestas and siestas
But last night the nation
That gave us Beethoven, Bach
And classical composers
Of often beautifully constructed
Football of the highest order
And a fair sprinkling of
World Cups
World Champions four times
Finally came unstuck
Exposed by Ecuador
Now therein lies a tale
To tell their future generation
Of families and grandchildren
They were there to see it all
Courageous from the kick off
Fearless to the bone,
Throwing caution to the wind
Stretching the Germans one way
Beating a path to the doorstep
Of their less than lustrous history
It was typical though
The Germans had to nab the sun loungers
And drape their Teutonic towels
While the Brits were still rubbing
Their sore heads after
A night of alcoholic heaven
Booze nirvana
But last night was no holiday
For the Germans, no sign of
A picnic at all
Initially Germany had thought
They’d cracked it
Understandably arrogant and
Preening themselves with
An inevitable 90 minutes
Of presumptuousness and poise
No problems at all for the Germans
No sweat, we’ll have Ecuador
For breakfast, lunch and tea
Feeble opposition
Let’s polish them off immediately
Within minutes the Germans had parked themselves
On the bright, green lawns of America
A goal, questioned at first
But then given
It was always thus with the Germans.
Debatable for high kicking
And law violations
But of course it wasn’t a foul
Never disagree with
German hubris and superiority
They know best undoubtedly
The late Kaiser Franz Beckanbauer
Tall and imposing as a
German lighthouse
Statesmanlike and statuesque
He would have raised his arm
In wild transports of celebration
It had to be a goal,
Immediately, of course he would
Insist as such
In acknowledgement of a goal
Of course, and none argued
Then the Germans kept flowing,
Slowing from time to time
But then somebody took out
The proverbial batteries
Of the German attack
Gerd Mueller would have had kittens
No service, no goals
For the regimented German army
And yet so often over the years
The Germans have been the nemesis
For innumerable English collapses
1966 may have been the exception
When Bobby, Nobby, Geoff,
Roger and Martin
Put those incorrigible West Germans
To the sword
Germans bowed but never beaten
For four years later
Those immaculate West Germans
Left Bobby, Martin, Jeff and Mullers
Masculine Alan Mullery
Panting in the heat of Guadalajara,
Where toxic food poisoning
Befell the Banks of England
And Peter Bonetti did purr briefly
But then the Cat
Fell victim to an unfortunate case
Of butter fingers
Mexican miserable melancholy
Mueller swivelled sensually
With those tree trunk thighs
And blasted the ball past the Cat
German supremacy
Cast in stone for the next
Decade and decades to follow
Until that famous night when
A Merseyside marvel
And Liverpool legend
Named Michael Owen
Startled a German audience
As England sparkled scintillatingly
And the scoreboard proudly proclaimed
5-1 to Blighty. How about that one?
Take that Herr and Frau
And then there was the Euros
Of recent vintage
When Gareth’s gladiators
Surpassed themselves
Victory again
Two world wars and one World Cup
Take that Deutschland
But it is, after all only a game
And yet for all those Indian signs
Witchcraft and hoodoos
England have never quite
Reached such stratospheric nights
Against the Germans
Incidentally you can keep your comedy
For the Germans have never made us laugh
Oh you do jest and joke
But last night most
English gentlemen and women
And of course,
Children were convulsed with
Laughter and hilarity
The Germans showed their Achilles Heel
Gaping defensive holes
Ecuador did equalise
And the world was no longer
Populated by Karl Heinz Rummenigges,
Felix Magaths, Uwe Seelers,
Wolfgang Overaths , the commander in chief,
Jurgen Klinsmann, Spurs finest ambassador
Models of pedantic correctness
Volkswagen technical efficiency
Upright, demanding respect
From the global community
Ecuador, with a nick from a corner
Nestling in the net like a Roman coin,
Now glinting and gleaming
The winner
A most valuable historical artefact
Priceless as they come
Ecuador through to the
World Cup knock out stage
Ecuador, yes, you’ve done it
We salute you
The World Cup opening ceremony
And then it happened
The World Cup, yet another
Explosion of colour
A glorious sensation
Across the nation
Sheer elation
Joyous celebration
To meet the expectation
Mexico, flamboyance
So ecstatic and buoyant
Mexico of course
You wax lyrical
So typical of a culture
Not a sign of a vulture
More the doves of peace
In football’s four yearly
Lease, occupying our thoughts
Hopefully few noughts
No goal-less draws
Upon those forbidding doors
Just tailor made entertainment
Mexico, a ringing endorsement
Last night, the hosts in
Perfect green shirted accord
Jumped aboard on opening night
Banished the fears and met the light
South Africa free as a bird
And now clearly heard
Explored their heritage
And dug deep and then took
The leap but never got going
The river of passing
Just stopped flowing
The hosts in dazzling form
It was always the familiar norm
Since the Azteca shook with history
Never a mystery
Unbeaten since the beginning of time
A carnival of lemon and lime
Let’s drink in the atmosphere
Amid the soaring stratosphere
Early on the Mexicans
Flourish their sombreros
Amid thousands of boleros
Scoring bright and early
Never nervy
A shot drilled in firmly
And sternly, no trouble
Only rubble in South Africa’s defence
Mexico never sit on the fence
Their attacking movements had
Style and grace
Satin and lace
Fluent and confident
Impulse in the
Central American manner
Emblazoned on their banner
Where Aztec feathers were
Always together
Men and women in shell suits
But no hint of dubbin and boots
Music and dancing
Just kept on prancing
Released from the cage
Never expressing rage
Of commerce and finance
Not remotely askance
From the drama and melodrama
Of our fondest hopes
No more chains and ropes
Tying the Beautiful Game
Down, never ever drown
Let the World Cup begin
We’ll have a gin
To toast the globe
Away from the flashing strobe
Jimenez of Wolves
Swooping header
No Scottish heather
But then the 35 year old
Jimenez stoops to conquer
Mexican hearts do the conga
World Cup revels
Are up and running
Sunning themselves
With stunning abandon
Just up and never down
48 teams bulging at the seams
A plethora of arts and crafts
Football’s broadest canvases
Of purity and nobility
When the finest whistle goes
And New York blows its
Millions of whistles
Maybe thistles from Scotland
And Sassenach England
Now there’s a story
Please don’t worry
Tartan kilts never wilts
Three Lions on the Chest
Only the best
It’s the World Cup
Of USA, Mexico, Canada
Not C and A.
The Beautiful Game
Of global fame
Blissfully free of shame
Always
The eve of the World Cup
It’s the eve of the World Cup
On the other side of the Atlantic
Dawn will break over Times Square
New York will be beside itself
Overjoyed and terribly privileged
Their chance to shine
On the world stage
It’s the soccer bandwagon
The jubliant jubilee
Back in the USA
Of course it’ll be a good day
We know it and you know it
Every day for the rest
Of our lives, joyous
Jumping, jiving by
Juke boxes of the 1950s
When Bill Hayley rocked
The world and universe
Bound to grab it with both arms
A hotbed of interest, intrigue
Loving their soccer brethren
The Statue of Liberty
Proudly upright and historic
Welcome to the world
America breaks bread with
Football and soccer
The highest plateau
Unmistakably so
Stars and stripes
Splashed across every page,
Millions of TV channels
Singing the praises
Of the Beautiful Game
Good Morning America
You’ve got this one
Radio stations with
Names plucked from
Every imaginable
Letter of the alphabet
Breaking news
Are you ready Fox,
CNN? this is the
Moment you’ve been waiting for
On VAR’s, offside,
Sprays across the nation
But America has been blase
And enlightened since
The days of Martin Luther King,
Theodore Roosevelt, Truman,
Kennedy, how tragically cruel
They know everything about
The round ball game
Back in 1994 Diana Ross
Taught our friends across the pond
About penalties
The essential rudiments of soccer
Remember the disintegrating net
Cross bar and posts
In that opening ceremony?
So do we
But the good folk of
Open and opulent Ohio
Mellow and magnificent Michigan
Fulsome and formidable Florida
Delectable Detroit
Wild and wanton Washington
Colourful and indeed courtly
California because they do dignity too
The towering skyscrapers
Soaring into the heights
Of pulsing electricity that
Lights up the country
Like the proverbial Christmas tree
Teeming tourists milling
Around salt beef delis
Always coffee and doughnuts
Pretzels for lunch
How is the American appetite
For World Cup football feasts?
The magic of Motown
Always in the air
You can breathe it
Special and authentic
Yellow taxi cabs
Just incredulous at
Soccer’s global and gargantuan
Reach into the farthest corners
Of pagodas, shrines and temples
Where football is a religion
Worshipped and idolised
Neymar, M’Bappe, Kane,
Bellingham, English
Roast beef and roasties
The embodiment of Sunday lunchtime
Fastidious Germans, always
Efficiency personified
Triumphant seemingly ad infinitum
Spain and France
Guardians of purity and beauty
Always hovering at the gates
Of aesthetically pleasing
Football played on the deck
Where it should always belong
Sweet and scientific
Passing from feet to feet
Rather than the orbit
Of blue American skies
Down South paddle steamers
Will be churning in Tennessee,
Alabama alive, Mississipi
Will be mesmerised by the game
That Europe once took to its heart
Romanticised and glorified
Dallas dallying with the great and good
Dreaming the impossible vision
Of the Jules Rimet Cup
Yes America, this is your time
Your day, your moment
In the sun, soccer
For ever more
Donald Trump
We fear the worst
When Donald Trump’s thirst
For world domination
Becomes the ruination
Of this Hollywood driven
World Cup, it’s a given
So the orange haired one in the
The White House
The cartoonish world of Mickey Mouse
America welcomes its soccer
Cheerleaders and ringleaders
But then stealing the thunder
With bombast and blunder
Trump claims all the TV rights
The burning lights
Centre of attention
That’s his intention
Once again among
On Trump’s egotistical flights
The whites of his eyes
Blinking and winking
But Donald will tell us
Climb aboard his gaudy bus
It’s all about him and his ego
Although he may never have
Heard of Figo
And then he’ll give us
Those concertina hands
Across vast seas and golden lands
But you doubt he’s heard of Sir Geoff
Hurst, World Cup hat-trick hero
No of course, Trump would rather be
Drinking in a Nero
Hurst, Peters, Moore,
Kempes and Luque,
Gerd Mueller, Paolo Rossi,
Pele and Garrincha,
The sparkling jewels in the
Crown of World Cup history,
The Gallic French musketeers
Of Emmanuel Petit, Thierry Henry,
Zinedine Zidane
The thrust and parry of
France’s finest fencers
Artists and stylists
1998, what a year
But Donald will be there
You can be sure of that
New York New York
So good they named it twice
Maybe thrice
Monopolising the CBS ratings,
The USA awaiting us
Smiling for the camera
Demanding the lens
Fox and CNN feeding
This vanity project
Just for him
Trump, just overwhelming
Sometimes overbearing
But it’s soccer and the World Cup
And never for a minute
Designed for him
But try telling Trump
About VAR and the offside law
He’ll let out a stentorian roar
And yet this is not the
The Trump World Cup
Quite certainly not
What’s a free kick and penalty?
Donald, explain in finite detail
It’s retail therapy
Just about the money, honey
A million dollar signs
These are the times
Flooding through our soul
America’s concrete bowl
Commerce and Coca Cola,
Over and over
Gambling in Vegas
The brazen bucks and
Burgers galore
It’s the Trump sitcom
Over here are the touchlines
Donald you are following us
Those are the goalposts
And crossbars
Yes it’s a penalty, Donald
But he’s fully acquainted
Never hated or fainted
In the heat of it all
Just noshing
But Donald we’re just joshing
You know we don’t know mean it
Trump, he’s prepared for
The make up and cosmetic treatment
This dressing room is for you
No resentment and boo
It’s the World Cup
But not the World Series
Its USA, Mexico and Canada
World Cup royalty
Unashamed loyalty
Faithful to the cause
No clause in their contract
Its full physical contact
Football, it’s our game
Celebrity and fame
Under a week to go
Before the whistle blows
The World Cup opens
Its treasure chest
Only the best
Disneyland awaits
In the United States
This will be a
Festival not a fiasco
A month of dancing
The fandango
Next week the globe
Gathers for its
Four yearly party
Destined to be hearty
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
Clik The Mouse
4th October 2026
Denys E. W. Jones
2nd October 2026
joe morris
22nd September 2026
Crispin Thomas
21st September 2026
Alex Saynor
18th September 2026
joe morris
10th September 2026
joe morris
29th August 2026
Mike Bartram
25th August 2026
joe morris
22nd August 2026
Denys E. W. Jones
21st August 2026
Crispin’s Corner
In Memoriam
Kick It Out & Christmas Truce
Latest Comments
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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22nd July 2026 at 10:22 am
One of the greats, inspired my generation of school kids in the 80s
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23rd May 2026 at 3:35 pm
Hi Crispin,
Thanks for the featured poem for the Arsenal Premier League victory. I love that photo showing the Arsenal ladies and fans in full rattle and rosette mode. I’ve seen it before quite a few times and, I think, a bit iconic. I think it was before the Gunners victory against Liverpool in the 1950 FA Cup Final. Great photograph.
Thanks
Joe
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8th May 2026 at 4:21 pm
Thanks for that Joe. Yes it’s been some season we had a blip but came out of it and finished strong. A mate of mine supports West Ham here in Coventry and my next door neighbour is a Spurs supporter, and both are getting edgy ! I like the Championship though as it’s competitive and has some good teams, players, and fans. Anyway we are back in the top flight and who knows what will happen ?
Cheers. Kev.
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