1 Leave a comment on verse 1 0 This royal throne of Sven, this sceptred isle,
This earth of service stations, this seat of cars,
This other Eden, this demi-paradox,
This fastness built by Nature for herself
Against Fenwick and the Hand of God,
This happy breed of men, this little world,
This precious stone set in an excremental sea,
But now bereft of national home at Wemberlee,
Our team now doth roam the country round,
Like some itinerant strolling players,
But dost it matter or is it for the best?
A body politic is strong with plural hearts,
T’is same for those with lions on their shirts.


A reply to my good lord Crispin who doth seem preoccupied with this matter – but what if they do knock down my theatre?

Source: https://footballpoets.org/poems/wemberlee/