Freud toyed

1 Leave a comment on verse 1 0 I cannot string, but two lines together
Without a footy rhyme, such as the ‘White Feather’
Or Chopper or Butch or Starsky and Hutch
For even nicknames, provide me a crutch
As my insignificant ramblings
Take in the Osgoods, the Hutchinsons, the Baldwins, the Tamblings
Rhyme for rhyme, metre for metre
I fondly remember : Houseman, Peter
My quest for puns grows ever needy
To fit the likes, of Hollins, Webb, McCreadie
Be it bon mot or just Bonetti
It’s certainly more Stamford Bridge, than Serengeti
And through it all, I search for meaning
Is there some Freudian message, to my keening?
Could it be, that I am superciliously sad
Or is it just
That I’m plain footy mad?

Source: https://footballpoets.org/poems/freud-toyed/