Poems tagged ‘World Cup’
Scotland the brave.
For so long it looked as if
It was never meant to be
But suddenly and joyously
It came all right
You could hear the Hampden roar
Echoing through the heather and glens
Of the Highlands and Grampians
The thunderous blast of
A million trumpets of triumph
Last night the Tartan skies
Were smiling, laughing, cheering
Raucously, uproariously to
The rafters
At long last Scotland
Have qualified for another
World Cup
Breathe in and take it all in
From the whisky distilleries
To Rabbie Burns peaceful home
Sir Alex’s granite city of
Aberdeen,
Those toiling dockers
And welders and shipping
Men who defined
Billy Connolly’s spiritual home
4-2 to Scotland
Now where have we heard that one before?
Those Sassenachs were
Preening themselves,
Taunting their neighbours
When the World Cup was won
Oh yes of course, 1966
We mustn’t forget that
But last night those
Doughty and determined Danes
Were beaten fair and square
Scotland plant their flag
On top of the world
If not quite world champions
Now that would be a sight to behold
Scotland have done it
Carving and weaving their
Own folk stories of where
They were when Scotland the Brave
Joined the rest of the globe
For the four yearly pageant
The Jules Rimet Cup
Oh shout it from the
Bristling, bubbling tenements
No longer grey but the
Brightest shade of Tartan
If that can ever be imagined
And yet it could have
Been so horribly different
Denmark were devouring
The Scots with the hunger
Of men
Who simply adore streaky bacon
And the sweetest pastries
Oh let’s feast on cliches
Whyever not?
It was nip and tuck
Helter skelter
A rare old ding dong
Goals weeping from
Inclement Glasgow heavens
Then up stepped Scott McTominay
Who must have remembered
Something Sir Alex must have
Told him, ages ago
Kieran Tierney and
Of course Kenny Mclean
With a name like that
He could hardly be anything
But a swaggering Scotsman
Congratulations Scotland
It’s been 27 years since you
Last graced a World Cup
With immaculately tailored
Tartan skirts
And sporrans of the finest cloth
Forget Ally’s Army
And those grim grimaces
Of anguish in Argentina
Today is your day to
Celebrate again
Atlas Cubs Crowned World Champions
In Santiago’s dusk the Atlas Cubs took flight
Their hearts ablaze beneath the crimson flame
The stars of Africa danced through the night
History bowed to whisper Morocco’s name
Yanis Benchaouch, a guardian brave and tall
Gloves kissed by turf, by thunder and by cheer
He soared through storms, defying every fall
Each save he made drew silence near
Ismaël Baouf patrolled the shadowed wing
Sliding steel where the brave dare tread
Ali Maamar’s lungs made freedom sing
Through roaring lungs and courage fed
Fouad Zahouani’s timing cold as stone
A tackle, clean and pure, no mercy’s trace
Takha Majni’s right flank a world of his own
Each stride a verse, each cross an embrace
Yassine Khalifi painted passes gold
With compass feet he shaped the field
Naim Byar’s press was fierce and bold
No rival’s rhythm left unconcealed
Hossam Essadak, a tireless drum
He powered the pivot, broke and fed
Saad El Haddad’s bursts would always come
To stir the pulse when dreams had fled
Gessime Yassine from the right did dart
A phantom blur, defenders spun
His crosses curled like works of art
Each movement sung beneath the sun
And Yassir Zabiri; the striker’s flame
He bent the free kick through Santiago’s sky
Two goals that sealed Morocco’s fame
And made the lion cubs learn to fly
Against Argentina’s storied might
They stood unmoved, their souls ablaze
Benchaouch leapt to save the night
And Maamar’s block drew endless praise
Zahouani cleared where danger slept
Majni swept low through dust and dream
Byar pressed high, and none were swept
Khalifi danced with fire’s gleam
Then came the whistle, that final cry
Red and green flew wild, untamed
Tears met the Chilean sky
As Morocco’s youth the world proclaimed.
The medals shone, the anthem soared
From Casablanca to Marrakech street
Each name forever now adored
Their boots have carved eternal beat
Yanis, Ibrahim, Abdelhakim’s grace
Ismaël, Ali, Fouad, Takha in flame
Hossam, Saad, Yassine’s chase
Naim, Othmane, Zabiri’s name
From desert dust to global stage
The Atlas Cubs rewrote the lore
Their hearts the ink, the world their page
Morocco crowned, forevermore
number7
emdad rahman
Sir Geoff Hurst
In the vanishing mists of time
One man stood tall
But now remains in not so
Splendid isolation
Because we’re here for you
Sir Geoff Hurst
The man who set
Millions of pulses racing
With hat-trick heroism and
His brothers in arms
On that fateful day on
The last days of July 1966
The man who never even
Remotely thought it was
All over because he
Knew it would never be so
Three goals from the fields
Of glorious Nirvana
But now he tours the country
With soulful but forlorn
Cries from the heart
There’s nobody left, Sir Geoff
Empty rooms, silenced voices
Your faithful colleagues now
Residing in football’s most
Heavenly furnishings
It all now seems ages ago
When Sir Geoff, in acres of space,
Nodded home Mooro’s beautifully
Weighted free kick for 1-1
And then chaos and bedlam
The shot that hit the bar and line
Never a goal or was it?
It had to be undoubtedly
England bellowed it out
With the loudest lungs
Of course it was
Then Sir Robert Moore
With remarkable coolness personified
Chipped over an
AWOL West German defence
Sir Geoff in telepathic pose
Knew half an hour before
Everybody else
On his own, racing away,
Streaking clear
Head down
Then with a pulverising swing
Of his foot
Smashed the fourth goal
With a deadly signature
Game over
The lad from the
Hammers academy
Sealed the deal
But now 58 years later
Sir Geoff yearns for
The company of those
Who made our day complete
And only finds teardrops
Of dear old colleagues
The friends who once shared
His precious thoughts and
Memories that seemed to last
For ever but now
Gone, deserting him
So heartbreakingly
And poignantly
It was never intentional
But of course they’re there in spirit
Oh, nobody left in the building
But Sir Geoff will never be alone
You’re a gentleman and scholar
The World Cup was once ours
If only briefly
Never, ever forgotten
Getting Closer Now
feel it getting closer now
never mind the rain
where they are the sun will shine
as we go again
can we do the business…
can we show the world ?
football is for everyone
ev’ry boy and girl
the past is gone it won’t come back
ev’rything is now
time to take the reins and rise
pride will win somehow
waiting will be over
I can sense us winning
what is it then – I hear you ask ?
it’s The World Cup…for Women
One step back for England
Now this feels like a throwback
To England’s setbacks
The realisation of an American
Dream. For 1950 World Cup
Read 2010 in South Africa
When Rob Green fumbled and
Steven Gerrard scored but
Then British TV audiences
Were fooled into thinking otherwise
England had won a car
For reaching that point
Advertisers prioritised
Cars over the Beautiful Game
And yet again
Last night England humbled
By the Yankee Doodle Dandy
Of vast, enormous commerce
Burgers the size of houses
Houses the sizes of baps
Candy for breakfast, tea
And supper
Still England faltering
In the face of American
Theme parks, unashamed
Disney childhood,
Where chat shows and
Stars and stripes celebrations
And singing, dancing revels
Send electrical currents
Through yet more vibrant
New York, LA salt beef bars
The lavishness of the night
In Florida and California
But surely not English football
Or soccer. Of course
My and your American friends
A thriving culture from
Both sides of the pond,
Crossing the Atlantic with style
Undoubtedly
So much so that yesterday
The USA did it again
Surprising but not this time
Leave that baseball and helmet
American football tradition
In its rightful place
England last night almost
Played off the park by
The distant relatives of Uncle Sam
Surrealism it seems but
This is the real thing
A goal-less draw between
Blighty and the USA
Gasp with deep inward
Breaths of amazement
When Pulisic hit the woodwork
An English winter street festival
Almost stopped the music
Permanently
England silenced again
But surely qualification
For knock outs assured
But Welsh dragons still
Blowing out fire
And yet have they five goals
In them to break English hearts?
We fear not but who knows
England and Wales it’s over to you.
England demolition job
What a relief
England fly off
The starting blocks
In Saudi heat and
Humidity,
6-2 against Iran
A stunning statement
Of intent,
Documentary proof
Of superior breeding
The noblesse oblige
Tip toeing daintily
Through crimson red
Fields of non existent
Powder puff Iran
Saka firing off Gunners
Double barrels of fire and purpose
The boldest pronouncement of youth
Politics breathing darkly beneath
The surface of conflicted thoughts
Bitterness raging around private
Talk of gay rights, humanity
Questioned for its rampant
Inhumanity, alcohol taboo
Unwelcome, take your custom
Elsewhere
But today England redressing
The balance of probabilities
Professional demolition job
Saka of Arsenal, double whammy,
Sterling worth a fortune
Appreciating with every minute
Of the 90. Unstoppable, that
Ubiquitous pain in the neck
Stroking the ball into the net
For flabby, wobbly, weak Iran
Soft underbelly, compliant, accepting their
Place in the football hierarchy
Invisible, weak and lack lustre
Lacking everything,
Simply lying down submissively
And waiting for their comeuppance
Thrashed and pulverised
Within the longest first half
Of any match
Three down before Marcus Rashford
Dances again around and around
Before slotting nonchalant goal
What could be so simple?
Then Saka again before
Jack in the box Grealish
Taps in an almost guilty pleasure
For this had been the recurring theme
Of the whole match
We watched through ambivalent eyes
Never entirely sure whether we should
But we did. Torn between fanatical
Patriotic English support
And then watching with domestic
Lenses, swallowing our pride
Forget the wild tempests of
Global narratives in football’s
Lounges of triumphalism
England hit six
It feels good
For Monday now
Read Friday
And another dream
Of American apple pie
Surely Gareth
Victory again
But let’s take
One game at a time
We’ve been this way before
So familiar but true
Qatar World Cup
It was the moment we must have
Dreaded in the global game
A World Cup in Qatar
Corruption and immorality
About to reign on Middle East
Grounds amid the disgusted
Voices of football’s debating
Chambers, Dissenting chants
Aghast at the sheer
Grotesque face that
The Beautiful Game
Now finds amid a minefield
Of explosive rhetoric
Wild and righteous indignation
In Saudi lands of appalling
Exploitation and savage
Manipulation, double dealing
And back handers
Sports washing in vile laundries
On filthy fields of dubious money
Despicable human rights record
Well chronicled and more
Newsworthy and topical
Than ever
Evil regimes in shady corners
Where only mutterings of
Discontent fester away
Like rotting bones of
Contention, violent
Opposition
Where the World
Cup football family
Tell us from the heart
That this is simply disgraceful
Abhorrent, it should be banished to
The peripheries of
Our commentaries.
If we had our way
This would be stopped
Immediately here and now
No World Cups in
Lands of crooked deception
Where everything seems
To be forbidden and nothing
Valued, ethics and morals
Sold down murky Middle East
Rivers where the stench
Of revoltingly ugly oil
Gushes through the senses
With obnoxious odours
It used to be the World Cup
Of admirable qualities
Of fairness and justice
Truth and accuracy
But in a couple of weeks time
We will tolerate and endure
In good faith
The Jules Rimet World Cup
Because poisonous fumes
Have infested the game
We’ve always cherished from the cot
Welcome Germany, France, Spain,
Brazil and Argentina and of course
England and Wales
The doors are open again
For blossoming business
Football though will be foremost
And uppermost in our minds
Not the shifty sheikhs or
The crafty money makers
The materialistic and grubby
Wheelers and dealers
Who lurk in Saudi markets
Ready to lead the
Beautiful Game into the
Darkest hole
Let there though be purity,
The delicate feet of craftsmanship
Football to be treasured
In the right way, the proper way
No strings attached, no rogues,
Cheats and opportunists,
Secretive spivs,
Football that leads us down that
Ultimate road to hope and redemption
Where only artists and the
Outrageously gifted live
And breathe
We fear that the World
Cup will not be in capable
Hands although we can but
Hope
Qatar ~ Will We Watch Or Not?
oh dear another four years on
and just like Russia and South Africa
the question arises again
Qatar – will we watch or not
and equally will we write poems about it ?
the football that is
yeah it’s that time guys
you know with or without fan zones
will our fans behave (those who can even afford to go that is)
to another ever-questionable location ?
where yet again disgustingly overpriced tickets flights and packages
make this a rich men and women’s tournament full stop
and where through it all
England try once more to not be too embarassed
so welcome to a Winter World Cup
welcome back to FIFA : (‘Failing In Football Always’?)
let’s say another hello
to their ever-big money-making-and corrupt-ego-fest
welcome to Qatar
a place that controls 13% of global oil reserves
where players will still tackle ridiculous heat
where temperatures reach 25C (77F) in November and December
where human rights barely exist
where being LGBTQ means nothing but a life in fear
where same sex relationships are illegal
where long-unheeded dangerous working conditions
for poorly paid and exploited migrants
has brought suffering debt and death
where alcohol is restricted in public places
and where their strict laws on public behaviour (including swearing)
make us ponder if old-chesnuts like:
‘your support is f****** sh** will make the cut ?
so here we are …as ever…confused angry and disappointed
on how-post Blatter and Platini
our once-People’s Game plummets to further depths
and we ask what’s changed…four years on
but just like Russia and South Africa…
the question arises again
Qatar… will we watch or not
and equally will we write poems about it ?
the football that is
World Cup – a year away now.
Now confusion reigns over World Cup
Jamboree, a celebration of world football
On its highest plinth, the summit of
Genius and greatness
Both former and now latter
But a year hence
They will gather in deserts
Of exotic sands and Saudi
Hospitality
But the World Cup
Near Christmas
Festivities seems
Like snow in July
Roses in November
Just weird incongruity
Not right,
Inappropriate
Like some spiritual gathering
At the wrong time and place
But we will happily embrace
The breathtaking perfection
Of Brazil because their
Ancestors and contemporaries
Have kept the flame burning
One touch passing and football
Taken from the honey pot and
Nectar of foot loose
And fancy flamboyance
Always welcome at football’s
Most sacred tables
A force of nature
Shades of the master
Pele running through
The blood cells of their
DNA, gorgeous impulses
Rather like the emeralds,
Rubies and diamonds
We know so well
A natural phenomena
Almost supernatural
At times,
Then the Germans,
Meticulous in their planning
For any World Cup
No stone left unturned
Pedantic in the grammar
Of the game, lethal finishers
Extraordinaire
Then the show off
Histrionics of Argentina
Part of the South American
Football’s technicolour
Whirl and swirl of fabulous
Fairground
The Italians unpredictable
Hard as rocks, but a flowing
Exhibition of revolt and
Rebellion, A joy to be
In their company
Then Spain
Also of recent gold dust
Full of the spirit of flamenco
The drama of the matador
Luring the bull into cunning
Traps, cruelty perhaps
But daringly demonstrative
And then England
Always a riddle wrapped in
An enigma, not so much a
Mystery, more a model
Of exasperation, not since
1966, Hurst, Peters and Moore
The holiest of trinities
Won the wretched thing
But only because Pickles
Rummaged through back
Garden bushes and there
It was, the gleaming bauble
Jules Rimet, the indisputable,
Glistening gold trophy
The one the world seeks
With compass and map
In hand,
Desperate to be reunited
When England must have
Felt the reconciliation
Was beyond us.
So Gareth please deliver
This festive package
This time next year
Harry Kane knighted
As Orson Wells
Citizen, freedom of
England,
Then Mason Mount,
Declan Rice, Raheem
Sterling in tandem
With ceremonial gusto
Then Jadon Sancho, and
Harry of Manchester United
Robes of red, but now
Patriotically appointed
Grealish, reminiscent of Gazza
But without the belching
At airports, the comic
Posturings,
Grealish, bandy legged
And beguiling, ball
Control at close quarters
Art at so many levels
So next year the World Cup
Will find us overwhelmed by
Heavenly skills from the Olympian
Heights, the epitome of elegance
From the ballrooms and penthouse
Suites of world football
From football’s most pampered
Feet, where the wealthiest
Ambassadors from FIFA
Will keep the World Cup
And its history in flourishing
Health.
That Photo of Jimmy Greaves
It captures him to a T. Look: eyes locked on the ball,
His face a mask of grim determination, he’s
Opening up like a cheetah chasing a springbok,
Showing the defender a clean pair of heels,
Who, lunging in, shows a studded sole in return.
It will gash his shin and need fourteen stitches.
It’s England v France at Wembley in July 1966.
They’re hosting the eighth World Cup competition.
Geoff Hurst will take his place and grab his chance.
Alf Ramsey will decide not to change a winning team.
He will score a hat-trick in the final versus West Germany,
Become an English hero and a knight of the realm in 1998.
Jimmy will finally collect an MBE in 2021.
What a player he was! We were watching Match of The Day
On the BBC. It must have been in the late 60s,
Because the picture was still fuzzy black-and-white.
Spurs had a free kick just outside the penalty area.
And twenty-one wild emotions were facing off
Over the defensive wall. “Come on, ref! Spurs players
Are muscling in!” “Their wall isn’t ten yards away!”
Only one man heard the referee’s whistle in the melee.
He stepped up with cerebral serenity from a short run
And placed the ball in the corner of the net,
While the goalkeeper was still shouting the odds.
It was his intellect that set Jimmy Greaves apart.
But in the seventies his decline began.
He started to drink. And the more he drank
The lower he sank. Was a snowball of regret,
Resentment and self-doubt rolling around and
Growing in his mind? Did he wonder why Fate
Stole his chance to be England’s World Cup hero?
Would they even have won with him in the team?
Were the snow clouds already louring as he sat out the final,
Suited in the July heat? Was his face ashen at the end amid
The ecstasy on the bench at the horror of his extinct dream
As the eleven men in red and white achieved immortality?
There was Nobby Stiles’s jig and Bobby Charlton’s tears.
Bobby Moore, chaired by the team, raising the Jules Rimet trophy
In his right hand. While the other squad members would only make
It into the footnotes of football history and the odd pub quiz.
Ten years later I would stand on the terrace at Fulham F.C. for a
Testimonial match. On the team sheet were many players well
Past their prime. One of them was Jimmy Greaves. His hair was
Thinner but longer. He had a droopy moustache and sunken eyes.
But neither time nor alcohol had ravaged that great football brain.
With one touch he scored the greatest goal I have ever seen.
As of old he turned and ran back up the field for the restart.
There may have been a brief smile and a wave. But that was it.
He beat the booze and found fame as the funny half of
Saint and Greavesie On TV. Always deadly serious on the pitch,
His on-screen barrow boy, cheeky chappie charm served him well.
Until football moved up-market. But as much as I enjoyed it,
It still grated on me. His erstwhile skill merited better tokens than
One-liners and a Spitting Image puppet Saying, “It’s a funny old game.”
It deserved to be preserved in joyous aspic in red and white on sweeping
Sward. With The Boys of 1966. At Wembley. But it wasn’t meant to be.
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26th July 2026
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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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