Football Poets

West Ham – crisis what crisis!

¶ 1 Leave a comment on verse 1 0 Oh come on we’ve been here
In the land of deja vu
Crisis if not quite catastrophic
One game in
And the alarm bells are ringing
Out across the Westfield shopping centre
Stratford in stasis, stagnant
As a pond, static and already
Fancied for the dreaded
Relegation drop into
The boiling furnace of
Oblivion and the Championship
Wilderness,
So here we are now
Mutilated by the Mackems
Of Sunderland
Now finding their
Tentative feet in the
Premier League again
Emergency emergency
The East London claret and blue
Are in the most appalling state
Two defenders and a strike force
Totalling your football poet’s
Age, Wilson!
Yes it does feel like Dad’s Army
At times
Callum Wilson fresh from
Geordie exertions
Still capable of
Goal scoring miracles
But 33 now ready for
Rag and bone man territory
Not quite
Pensionable status
Then Fulkrug
Also approaching
The old boys network
32 now
And to think Potter
Wanted fresh young
Ceramics at his kiln
Just Kyle Walker Peters
Once a Saint now a Hammer
And a pancake flat
Midfield, soggy and insipid
Like an ageing Roman artefact
Slow as the proverbial tortoise
Plodding, powerless and
Of course pedestrian
JWP still searching for
Eye of the needle passes
But 30 now
Not exactly past his best
But shortly and appropriately
The autumn of his career
James Ward Prowse,
Hyphenated but happy to be
At the London Stadium
And yet it all feels ragged,
Threadbare, detached
And above all dysfunctional
On Friday it’s Chelsea, Chelsea
Still raking it in by the
Millions and billions
Wealthy beyond reason
Star studded and naturally
Sophisticated by the harbour
And village that fringes
Its theatre of London
Swankiness
No longer the Premier League
Champions of modern times
But still a force to be
Reckoned with
Never beaten until the
Final whistle
In the opener of the
New season
Held by Palace
This year’s team of teams
FA Cup winners
But Oliver Glasner
Gazed across at
Mark Guehi
His rock at the back
With despairing eyes
Guehi now much more
Concerned with thoughts
Of wearing Liverpool red
And so he is
But in the East End
A blanket of darkness
Falls sombrely
Across the hapless Hammers
Now blurred vision
Like a soul destorying thud
Against the grey brick walls
It just feels like
The worst and most
Excruciatingly painful
Of all seasons
Euro Conference winners
Now feels like ancient history
The Stone Age, the Neolithic Age
When men used to hammer anything
From tables and chairs
Into real, permanent life
The fans at the London Stadium
Will be hoping that
The crystal ball forecast
Has got it completely wrong
But you do fear the worst
At the moment, anyway
Because, now Chelsea
Feels like
The massacre of all
Massacres
Hammers hammered
Pummelled, beaten
To a pulp
Chelsea must be licking lips
It has to be theirs
For the taking
Three points for the visitors
And Hammers hung out to dry
But you never know
Moses did part the Red Sea
Hold on didn’t Victor
In his Blues parish
Boost their morale
And yet
It really doesn’t look good
For, now at least, West Ham
Let’s fight back from the brink
But Come on you Irons
They can do it
You feel sure
They will

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