The Premier League season’s end.

1 Leave a comment on verse 1 0 Not quite the end for the Premier League
Toilers and grafters,
Silk weavers and sculptors
Clay and rock
Granite and gossamer
Oh what a season
For claret and blue
Maturity complete
Four in the fens
At forlorn Norwich
No more bumper crops
For Canaries subdued
By battle hardened West Ham
Sadly lost in that proverbial coalmine
Where only the defiant cries
Of last autumn can be salvaged
From the lonely loitering
Of Norfolk folk who can remember
Early season promise
But now back again
In the Championship
It must feel like manure and peat
And burning ashes
Norwich’s salad days will return
Permanently, they hope
When Dean Smith re-discovers
Bearings and pleasant feelings
Meanwhile at the top of the filthy
Wealthy Premier League,
Manchester City’s Arab sheikhs
Are hovering over gushing oil wells
Of glittering trophies, Another
Premier League title
City yet to play as we speak
But Liverpool are gasping
In desperate need of oxygen
And snookers to overtake
The relentless Etihad machine
Full of powerful pistons and pulleys
Liverpool held by Spurs
Now seemingly hitting a marathon
Wall. Anfield resigned to the worst
But no longer under the spiritual
Influence of Bob Paisley or Shanks
Or the generous Fagan, Joe of
The Boot Room, all part of the
Liverpool furniture. And yet
This season could go to the last tick
Of the clock, the final minute of
A season of sumptuous sauces
Thick, lavish helpings of seconds
On the last day
Final hurrahs,
Nail biters and transistor radios
Down or up, loyal fans
Barely able to look, understand
Or imagine the full impact
Tears of joy and happiness
This is football, heavy
With gripping emotion and pathos
Let’s bring on Shakespeare to score
The glorious winner
From the subs bench
Stratford Upon Avon’s finest
Deep lying forward
Relegation or promotion
Terraces rocking and rolling
Burying heads or swarming
Onto the pitch in their united
Overwhelming hundreds and thousands
Multitudes of moping melancholy
Broken by the strain
The gravy train
But then we congratulate
Those with promotion in their midst
So there could be
Palpitations, shredded nerves
Spurs and Arsenal
Going head to head
Toe to toe
For Champions League
Blue riband contests
North London gloating rights
Inferior or superior
Two games to go
Local red blooded animosities
Fierce, inflamed passions
Spurs gain a point
Now Arsenal still in full flight
A steamroller towards the finishing
Line. Arsenal gain the upper hand
Against lively, yet stumbling Leeds
Just about safe from the dreaded drop
But a team not entirely sure
Where the future may take them
The Foxes of Leicester
Creeping out into tentative spring
Sunlight but devoured by ravenous
Toffees of Everton who look at the
Sweet jars of survival and chew
Delightedly at the scraps
Then the Bees of Brentford
Three more points and
Honeycombs left behind
By the Saints
Certainly not paragons of virtue
Season nosediving into nowhere
Southampton, just creditable
And nothing more
Wondering what exactly Mick
Channon, David Peach and
The dearly beloved
And much missed Bobby Stokes
Would have made of muddled
Predicaments near the bottom
Of the Premier League
Then quite sensationally the
Dark, satanic mills of the Red
Devils of Manchester United
Plunge into hellish fires
At the seaside end of piers
Of Brighton who must have
Thought the Punch and Judy
Show had come to the Amex
Stadium, United thumped on the
Nose, bleeding profusely with
Deeply hurt pride, offended
By their ordinary offerings
This season
Burnley perched on the trapdoor
And at Turfmoor,
Now fighting for their lives
Could Lowry still be on their side
Among industrial bleakness, factory
Gates clanking, relegation cries
Out at clocking on for workaday
Duties, the dark smoke of demotion
Clings desperately to grubby overalls
Of a season worn down by relegation
Clouds now hanging like white flags of
Mike Jackson, now no longer in charge
of Thrillers and probably Beat It
Then Chelsea running on empty
Held by threatening Wolves
At the Bridge of Sighs
But nevertheless in the Champions
League waiting rooms
Watford Hornets now sadly stung
By yet more Palace royalty
Demotion back to the lower dungeons
Of haunted Championship confinement
Roy Hodgson, a master tactician
But now retirement may well beckon
The Premier League
We’ll miss you
When the final bugles are heard


Concluding chapters of the Premier League season.

Source: https://footballpoets.org/poems/the-premier-league-seasons-end/