Until The Final Whistle

1 Leave a comment on verse 1 0 Football
Sunday park leaguers
Premier dreamers
With Beckham’s hairstyles
But not his goals
The dead eye on managers
Whose hearts win matches
But whose tactics won’t
And patience for sale
For the price of 3 points
With its sponsor laden body
Pregnant with adverts and hype
And the ten per cent soul
Trading contracts that melt in the hands
Like chocolates in the mouth
Drinkers V Thinkers
The eloquent passion of a Gallic redeemer
Those 3 little words
Cracks open the soul
And finds itself home
Beautifully blemished
Exquisitely flawed
Tribal obsessive
Vulnerable mercenary
Its language frantic
With a boot room philosophy
Scarred with its numbers
And badges and emblems
And legends and blood…
The addictive drug
That can’t give enough
The lover the villain
The hero the cheat
The unrepentant soul
The unforgiving priest
Temperamental insatiable
Demanding and raw
Porcelain passes
From the backyard academy
Of greyhounds and donkeys
Of seasons over by Christmas
Thrown out with the left over turkeys
Broken toys and deflated balloons
And then it rewards with its promise
Of glory to perish the bloodless
And each stone left unmoved
Smooth talk and wisdom
Spread on a platter
Of pundits and experts
Badge kissers and analysis
Sweated and replayed
From the angles of cameras
Bent over like lovers
With nothing more to lose
Whilst mobile phones
Rest on training cones
Catwalk boots Armani suits
Percentage style and photo shoots
New Stadia New Football
Old Money still talks the best game of all.

2 Leave a comment on verse 2 0 Sharon Marshall 9th january 2004

Source: https://footballpoets.org/poems/until-the-final-whistle/