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Afterthoughts - Part 2
Contributed by
eleven7
on
Friday, 22nd June 2012 @ 06:06:11 AM in AEST
Topic:
oops
|
keepie-uppies, nutmegs too
a circus exhibition
cheeky wing-play's what they do
for the television
three-two the score! which doesn't show
the sides are poles apart
we're made to look so witless slow
prosaic in act and art
then they go and give us
a second awful shock
we must bow down, god help us
to another bloody jock
a giant really, one john stein
glasgow celtic's mastermind
who leads his hoops in white and green
to raptures unconfined
a goal behind, they win two-one
europe's bumper prize
demolish inter of milan
before our goggle eyes
aye, history gets written
as they join the game's elite
the very first in britain
to accomplish such a feat
and this'll make your senses spin
a statistic stark
all their bhoys were born within
forty miles of celtic park!
anyway, we watched on telly
and saw how it was done
how defence can melt like jelly
when its flanks get overrun
in the end its shape will crumble
under siege from wing to wing
it only takes a careless stumble
or some silly dithering
to make a mess of . . . tell me why
your faces flush so red
you fix me with an evil eye
is it something that i said?
our heads, you fool, are swollen sore
because your tongue's too long
all this scots stuff is a bore
it spoils our world cup song
surely if you must create
a great, immortal rhyme
it's ramsay's team you celebrate
england in their prime
another thing! you seem to hint
his lads were pliant cogs
tenacious and obedient
like well-taught collie dogs
that do their bit with bark and bite
alert to awkward tasks
mark the midfield good and tight
exactly as he asks
wow, you seem to say, and phew
how could our modest lot
this decent, ordinary crew
lift football's biggest pot?
well, mealymouthed is what you are
and misguided too
you hint we lacked a single star
whereas we'd quite a few
we'd gordon banks the goalie
acknowledged everywhere
he was burly, roly-poly
and ruled both ground and air
strikers lunged like horses
wild, unbridled brutes
but the big man clutched the crosses
plunged among the boots
saved each header, lob and drive
each volley high and low
spurned somersault and swallow dive
and such-like bravado
gibberish! for goodness' sake
all goalies are stark mad
that bashful bit, you fruitcake
was but his little fad
goalies are a race apart
crazy, crosspatch freaks
strong in body, stout of heart
prey to sulky streaks
members of exclusive bands
they feed on ego trips
instead of feet they use their hands
they won't wear proper strips
mental cases! thick as bricks
risking life and limbs
they like to flaunt between the sticks
their anti-social whims
a dark, unbalanced species
kamikazi and remote
crabbit creatures of caprices -
yet the ballast of our sport
unabashed they bear the strain
brave the tumbles come what may
blarney, bully and complain
rule the box with much to say
bellow lots of scarlet patter
see the gameplan doesn't seize
sometimes fault and sometimes flatter
seldom do they seem at ease
enough of goalies! now's your chance
you want to puff, i'm sure
the excellence and brilliance
of bobby charlton, bobby moore
with just one more to make it four
and hurst an easy pick
wasn't he the first to score
a final three-goal trick?
yes he was and yes we mean
to scupper your conceit
that they were rank-and-file routine
a side of spiceless meat
we do believe you're blind and deaf
no ifs or buts about it
our banks and bobbies and big geoff
were global class undoubted
but first of all we must deflate
your latest piece of guff
keepers in fact fascinate
and folk can't get enough
of hunks who catch their fancy
though patchy in the head
whose working ways are chancy
intuitively led
cocky, spunky, swanky
call them what you like
cantankerous and cranky
with a volcanic psyche
that can quickly simmer down
from fiery hot to icy cold
hero, villain, straight man, clown
keeper roles are manifold
one minute act the teddy part
affect a cuddly air
the next be berserk, hard of heart
a bloody polar bear
save a scorcher from the spot
raise a fist in pride
now chase the touchline idiot
who didn't flag offside
and rib the wretched referee
who's also joined the chase
and waves a red card tetchily
and pokes it in your face
a keeper's cares are never done
there's always something new
fast asleep he'll toss and turn
and thresh the sheets askew
a pleasant dream goes spooky
he quakes between the sticks
a helpless little rookie
braving big-game kicks
wake up, you fool! you're in your prime
you're no demure recruit
show those dicks you've done your time
they're queuing up to shoot
rise and shine, man! mime king kong
make the goalposts shrink
keep mind and body sweet on song
brain and brawn in sync
high and low and off the cuff
pick their efforts clean
power drive and powder puff
and all sorts in-between
you can thwart the finest whack
from twelve short yards away
provided you've acquired the knack
the chances are you may
outsmart the kicker, catch his drift
suss him at a glance
gauge his every start and shift
decode each dalliance
there are tricks to every trade
and keeping's no exception
the seasoned goalie's well prepared
for infinite deception
do lefties truly choose to shoot
to the keeper's right?
do those who use the other foot
prefer the opposite?
flex the legs and bend the knees
arch the elbows, hunch the back,
clench the knuckles, crunch and squeeze
leave the fingers slack
loom large and lour as if you need
a little bit more space
feign to pay no further heed
to the furrows of his face
spread the hands and brace the feet
limber up the legs
you're set to keep a spotless sheet
as sure as eggs is eggs
here he comes! now hold your fire
read his run-up pat
ground-stroke, side-swipe, high-rise flier
daisy-cutter, splat
something in the way he slouches
scuffs a toe-cap at a sod
slightly left of centre crouches
lifts his head and drops a nod
makes the kicker a mite queasy
quickens a suspicious hunch
this whole caper seems too easy
why's the guy as pleased as punch?
hanky-panky! fiddle-diddle!
feed the bait and wait the bite
left or right? i'll take the middle
hit it with a bit of height
he dips and dinks! i've got him worried
bowed and balanced on his toes
well, high time this ball was buried
ready, steady, here goes!
yes, i'm really set at last
head down and steaming in
lam that leather at full blast
hear that rigging sing
our fans will love it very much
as he leaps eagle-spread
what fun they'll have to see him clutch
at empty air instead
bang on! bull's eye! a raking drive
a fine, ferocious hit
he flies and flails and - snakes alive!
hell on horseback! *****!
dash and dammit! diabolic!
devils horned and hooved!
after all that fret and frolic
the bugger hasn't moved
except unhurriedly to raise
a rather knobby fist
which bops the ball which ricochets
into gloomy mist . . .
penalties bemuse and blind
as many great ones know
it's weird how they melt the mind
remember baggio
italy's cup final star
serene, inscrutable
he blazed the ball beyond the bar
and won it for brazil
okay! okay! let up a minute
someone grunts and glowers
you say their skills are infinite
they've got abnormal powers
and still you warble hunkydory
goalkeeping obsessed
but there's another spot-kick story
that's hardly been addressed
sure, your idols deal with crisis
by and large it's what they do
they're wise to wheezes and devices
booby traps and ballyhoo
they withstand great pressure
flourish in a pinch
give the fans full measure
desperate to clinch
a juicy, unexpected win
a bounty from the board
a next round tie at goodison
or even annfield road
aye, keepers kindle and engage
a high regard no doubt
but kickers too tread centre stage
at the penalty shoot-out
and here's the fascinating thing
many don't realise
the fact is fans are fastening
cool penetrating eyes
on all the chosen, one by one
who take that lonely walk
each blowy, blushful, brass-neck man
they seriously stalk
alert for fluctuations
in the body works
half-hidden hesitations
collywobble quirks
once they get the go-ahead
do they peak or pine?
do feather feet or feet of lead
wend from the halfway line?
do they toddle? do they trot?
strut or slouch or stride?
it's sixty metres to the spot
and nowhere they can hide
see that one shifting up the pitch
surefooted, at his ease
they aren't fooled! his ankles twitch
he's knocking at the knees
and this one sturdy as a rock
he'll miss and be unmanned
they see it coming! shame and shock
substance turned to sand
big match shoot-outs best of all
bring out the very worst
the well-loved hero who walks tall
is in a blink accursed
there he goes, his head erect
shoulders soldierly
a captain steady and direct
though knowing folk agree
he's too impetuous by far
skimps on core technique
scoops his effort off the bar
a balls-up, so to speak
aye, many find it hard to take
the pressure's so acute
the stakes are massive, make or break
fame or disrepute
he broods too much, he's terrified
of being thought a fool
of messing up and shooting wide
and lifelong ridicule
he'll be found out, he lacks true grit
attentive fans can see
he'll lose his nerve and foozle it
live on prime tv . . .
these penalties were seen at first
as just a passing phase
but pedants saw with prim lips pursed
the end of cup replays
they saw who really called the tune
and carried all the clout
some filthy rich tv tycoon
had levied this shoot-out
big money talks! it cuts a swathe
through rules and regulations
cares not a fig for creed or faith
or precious reputations
a telly mogul scans a sum
and finds the figures stink
boardroom pandemonium!
premier profits shrink!
unthinkable! it cannot be
cash cows don't run dry
we need a spot of gimmickry
to catch the public eye
let's dramatise the ending
play a gameshow ploy
viewers love heart-rending
scenes of grief or joy
euphoria, delirium
funk or fortitude
peaking in their living-room
till they're superglued
to tense climatic cup-ties
where penalties spellbind
with hellish lows and glorious highs
and goalie jinks combined
oh yes, we'll lure our truants back
and rake in scads on scads
big business will pay a whack
to make us take their ads
shoot-out! there's the very word
workmanlike and witty
sure, some will snicker how absurd
six-guns at dodge city!
sticklers, fusspots, fogey folk
will surely vent their spite
our ingenuity's a joke
our inspiration trite
they'll say we're tarting up the game
pursuing vulgar ends
we're cheats and crooks! we bear the blame
for cheap and glitzy trends!
we're parasites! we gorge our guts
sucking football's skin
such taunts and tantrums and tut-tuts
you'd swear we're selling sin!
do we cope with all this clamour
about our phoney frills
our soapy, showbiz glamour
our lack of principles?
indeed we do! it all pans out
sooner than predicted
it's dandy viewing there's no doubt
and millions get addicted . . .
track the quakers, spot the quacks
come to take their turn
mug-shots, close-ups and playbacks
scrupulously done
presentation slick and smooth
on the pitch, in studio
nothing florid or uncouth
the pictures plainly show
who's the man and who's the mouse
the firm and the faint
the blue-eyed boy, the big girl's blouse
the sinner and the saint
wait a minute! there's a snag
this sounds very fine
but when your kickers frisk or flag
is it genuine?
perhaps it's bluff! or double-bluff?
a kid-the-keeper wheeze?
our shoot-out freaks can't get enough
of mind-game mysteries
why do brave and clever pros
behave like craven nyaffs?
why do some go comatose
and make such awful gaffes?
here's a daft thing! how absurd
how very odd and vague
that taking spot-kicks in cold blood
is treated like the plague
by seasoned strikers who contrive
despite great scoring feats
to skip the firing squad of five
submitted on team-sheets
such puzzles stump the customers
invite much scrutiny
and so does that infernal curse
the puffed-up referee
who sees the drama as a chance
to pander and to preen
it will enhance his brilliance
on everybody's screen
his head will swell, his chest as well
he'll whistle lavishly
he'll run a lively carousel
and thrill the gallery
a specialist, he'll get things done
smooth and spick and span
though kickers sometimes tend to turn
sickly green and wan
though kickers sometimes tend to bawl
purple-faced and fraught
stop bugging me! i placed that ball
precisely on the spot!
and though he doesn't air his views
on all those flaky knaves
the kind who leap like kangaroos
to make their wonder saves
who try to steal a tick of time
and leave the line too soon
who wink at such unwitting crime
and deem themselves immune
to every rule-book article
that cramps their oddball style
oh my god, if looks could kill
have i said something vile?
why all the meaty glances
the sullen nods and scowls
the gloomy countenances
the subaquatic growls?
because, you booby, we detect
symptoms of disease
someone's managed to infect
your mind with referees
which is unforgivable
not at all like us
we wouldn't waste one syllable
on scruff so cretinous
except of course when we fulfil
the ancient courtesies
we give those prigs a greeting shrill
of effs and bees and cees
but you keep bleating on and on
refs do this and refs do that
has your brain completely gone
to mutton and to fat?
remember fifa's laws assert
all players' full protection
yet hordes of refs are sore beset
by gammy eye infection
there are those who know fine well
you swivel to survive
and there are noodles who can't tell
a divot from a dive
and some who'll give a penalty
if a hero hits the sod
and some who claim no man can see
the playful hand of god
they're all so supercilious
these hoity-toity minions
totally oblivious
to terracing opinions
they never heed the good advice
advanced from the dugout
repeated once or twice or thrice
each time the ball goes out
and they don't care one puny fart
when honest fans see red
if they're not there to play their part
the game can't go ahead!
now strike me dead, good lord, at once
should i mention them again
spike my pen's neurotic dance
forever and amen . . .
aye, the shoot-out's a success
discontent is dimming
diehards finally confess
it's more than mere trimming
it's composure, common sense
commitment to the core
when the pressure's most intense
you're sent up there to score
dammit, this is parrotry
ignore what i just said
i'm sorry that my story
is constantly misled
by some fanatic persons
of erratic disposition
addicted to diversions
contradiction, repetition
i think it's now beyond repair
blown to bits and pieces
by gasbags who insist i share
their latest, urgent thesis
on why the strikers must be axed
if europe is our aim
they're much too flaccid and relaxed
the manager's to blame
on what's become of those fine plans
to spangle up the side
the owners pledged brazilians
once again they've lied . . .
on, on they go! they sabotage
and endlessly distract
blitz your mind with a barrage
of fiction dressed as fact
so how on earth do i escape
all this frothy blether?
should I bother to reshape
my broken thoughts together
when the story's long since lost
its fundamental line
which called for change and damn the cost
you update or decline
because the system's dumbing down
our game is under threat
where's the greatest show in town?
it's nightly on your set
previews, highlights, matches live
the more the merrier
as scores of stars arrive and thrive
in the english premier
a fit and proper place to be
for players who are special
a league that's lapped in luxury
with sponsors universal
and buyers from the seven seas
blueing roubles, dollars
riyals, bhats and currencies
obscure to fiscal scholars
a multi-billion business
a blissful way to live
the pay and perks and bonuses
would peeve a banking spiv
they deserve it! viewers see
the power they assert
through natural ability
and willingness to sweat
adept at tactics and techniques
flush with artistic fire
they strive to show us week by week
they're worthy of their hire
yes, certainly they're welcome here
whichever way you scan it
they've made our english premier
the best league on the planet
well, what a boost, you bluster
for the nation's pride
our football's a blockbuster
followed far and wide!
a pity, though, our native sons
are thin upon the ground
top-table fare of home-made buns
is rarely to be found
the head at times rebuffs the heart
and sniffs at loyalty
now and then our big clubs start
with only two or three!
a sorry fact! we've far too few
true-born local chaps
who proudly wear red, white and blue
and boast a clutch of caps
aye, in the birthplace of the game
a shameful ratio
and who or what deserves the blame?
i'm sure you'd like to know
or maybe not! you're all enthralled
with things the way they are
you've no occasion to be called
racist, insular
or other names with nasty smells
for highlighting a wheeze
which links some mighty big league swells
with anti-anglo sleaze
wheeze! sleaze! you spout again
your drift is quite doolally
please shut up and count to ten
or till you brain cells rally
we really think, sir, that your mind
is well and truly minced
your case is feeble, ill-defined
and we are not convinced
by airy-fairy whimsy
which is what you spout
your pros and cons are flimsy
lacking pith and clout
besides, how often have you sung
our game's beyond compare
it's fascination so far-flung
folk love it everywhere
in holland, spain, and italy
in germany and france
there, commentators all agree
our league now leads the dance
in argentina and brazil
tomorrow's superkids
get wistful and excitable
and dream of english bids
yes, you yourself have said so
it's the best there's ever been
premier soccer in full flow
bestrides the global scene
yet now you're in denial
it seems you've changed your tune
has it all become a trial
much more bane then boon?
and must you blur and baffle
with words of little sense
your wheeze and sleaze are waffle
not concrete evidence!
lord, give me strength and patience
keep me calm and cool
i'm facing allegations
outrageous cock and bull
no, i haven't changed my view
the premier's the best
a prolific venture too
generously blest
with ample awe and wonder
and glittering appeal
with backroom boys who plunder
and screw and strip and steal
a wheeze is but a jokey trick
maybe a bit cheeky
lawful, often lunatic
sometimes sly and sneaky
which is fine if it's for fun
and meant to make us laugh
if naughty deeds are not being done
by the recruiting staff
hey, that's a stupid thing i say
dark deeds is what they do
they're versed in every wicked way
to crookwork old and new
spooky creatures, fly-by-night
off on secret missions
cloak and dagger, out of sight
making propositions
beguiling nervous mums and dads
to roles indelicate
seducing them with big fat wads
of juicy tax-free bait
don't heed, they urge, the hubbub
just say that it's been fun
and mind to thank this famous club
for nurturing your son
no matter their resentment
your family rights come first
too bad their shrewd investment
shall not recoup a crust
we must, you see, enrich the stock
of our academies
and, yes, the best kids on the block
are foreign prodigies
well-prepared, ready-made
attuned to pro routines
self-possessed and unafraid
by their middle teens
sleaze is squalid, sordid work
the resort of devils
who lick their bloated lips and lurk
at soccer's upper levels
it's immoral and corrupt
mocks the sporting spirit
and . . . no, you cannot interrupt
you only want to stir it
no, we don't! but we subscribe
to the backdoor principle
which bids you gild the pill and bribe
or else your rivals will
and actually we applaud
the glitterati set
who bring their billions from abroad
to rid our clubs of debt
they get to buy them first of course
then they splash the cash
refresh, reform, reinforce
and cut a hectic dash
through complex regulations
dispensing envelopes
cementing good relations
with canny misanthropes
red tape apparatchiks
starchy local bosses
who brief them where to put the ticks
and where to put the crosses
pressing buttons, oiling wheels
expediting plans
behind the scenes they bind the deals
and they're the very ones
to quell the pandemonium
the anger and dismay
when fans realise their stadium
is moving miles away
grand new ground, new staff, new stars
investments! acquisitions!
adventurers with flashy cars
and grandiose ambitions
soon see them lavish riches
with premier largesse
relieving lower reaches
lame ducks in sore distress
now hold it there! okay, it's true
the premier is rich
and doing very nicely too
on and off the pitch
but has it crossed your tiny mind
the whole shebang's a scam
you're either deaf and dumb and blind
or else don't give a damn
if you can't read the simple creed
behind this hallowed league
it feeds on unremitting greed
and wallows in intrigue
it reeks of rancid monies
which for reasons of hygiene
need frequent off-shore journeys
to wash them squeaky clean
aye, the rumours make you ponder
the lucre shipped in sacks
the rake-offs that they launder
through dotcom anoraks
they're fat, you say, and clever cats
and i am talking guff
why would football's plutocrats
pollute their dripping trough?
because, you fool, they're lords and kings
and puppets do their bidding
they rig the rules and pull the strings
fair play? you must be kidding!
foul, more like! their scoundrel schemes
bring misery and woe
to four times twenty other teams
that founder down below
they lick their chops and smack their lips
those charitable chaps
then bid our lesser fellowships
scrabble for the scraps
god knows how these divisions cope
and somehow stay onside
they live on tick and faith and hope
and suffer nationwide
yes, some are rich and many poor
immune to fortune's smile
the wonder is they still endure
from yeovil to carlisle
flotsam on the sloughy wake
of premier conceit
our jacks-in-office quite forsake
the poor for the elite
rake in the telly smackers
embrace brave cosmic plans
well, wouldn't you be crackers
to back the also-rans!
you don't aspire to global brands
with perishable goods
no-hopers don't get helping hands
or trigger melting moods
it's economics, after all
you maximise resources
your stock is either on the ball
or falls to market forces
waffle! pish! you sniff and snarl
arrant balderdash!
such notions are neanderthal
avaricious trash!
mark my words, disaster looms
boom will come to bust
as countless folk in sitting-rooms
register disgust
soon they'll heed a pressing need
to wield the rule of thumb
too many homespun stars, they read
are anti-social scum
too many front-page splashes
filthy off-field japes
crawls and brawls and bashes
groupie romps and rapes
role models mustn't run amok
wreak havoc in hotels
prowl in packs around the clock
and surface in the cells
they mustn't yobbishly dismiss
public obligations
it doesn't pay to ***** and *****
on customer relations
crucially, they mustn't lose
the trust of mums and dads
should they switch off because they choose
then who will watch the ads?
mark my words, the day will come
and sooner than you think
when tv moguls scan a sum
and find the figures stink
shrinking profits! frantic scrimmage
admen promptly clean
big league soccer's rotten image
off your telly screen
ach, this is now and that was then
your omen is miscast
you're speaking gibberish again
and living in the past
every day we read or hear
another big exclusive
crude and coarse or cavalier
but not the least intrusive
no, not the least! for now we place
small store on tabloid squealings
they don't invade our private space
or fan our finer feelings
we don't devour their gutter tales
to feed some inner needs
or chew to bits the raw entrails
of last night's dumb misdeeds
not any more! but it's good fun
to find our fledgling plebs
carousing with their legs undone
among the toffs and debs
partying with posh new pals
at a jolly cabaret
champagne and choicest chemicals
and a caviar buffet
you knit your brows? it's funny
in a niggard sense
rags-to-riches yarns make money
reach a wider audience
keep the gossip columns busy
scoop the clubbing stakes
catch our starlets lurching dizzy
as the morning breaks
jumping queues for taxi-cabs
causing brief melees
hot for curries and kebabs
fish supper take-aways . . .
okay! okay! yes, that'll do
a little fun is fine
thank you for your point of view
which doesn't gell with mine
i'm not inclined to countenance
this jokey, joshing claim
that redtops choose a token stance
and all their stories seem the same
daily defamations
glaring celeb gaffes
swipes at reputations
feeble, singsong laughs
good fun, you say! well, think again
on those benighted capers
what exactly happens when
our goody-goody papers
splash their bold publicity
with screamers full of spite -
superbrats on superspree
boy wonders booze all night
it's certainly no merry hoot
for fans who feel let down
who'll know for weeks the keen pursuit
of every wit in town
and no great joy for team-mates
who dangle in dismay
a midweek euro tie awaits
a few short hours away
the board confers with bated breath
sponsors are in touch
coaches linger pale as death
but don't say very much
because the gaffer's up the stairs
throwing chairs and cups
hurling threats and hairy stares
at three delinquent pups
of course they aren't pups at all
but whey-faced english youth
their good opinion punctured small
dubbed useless and uncouth
bullied with a bile impure
belching from his tongue
drenched in lashings of manure
***** and turds and dung
two weeks' wages, they are told
that's what they'll be fined
and you'll be dropped and you'll be sold
your honour's undermined
you've made this club a laughingstock
front page news! a pr mess!
our bigwig chiefs are deep in shock
they'll kick you out unless . . .
there's no such thing, the cynics swear
as bad publicity
both batten, press and premier
on brats who make whoopee
yes, maybe the idea's funny
silly, cock-eyed, comical
but, listen, here we're talking money
and profits prodigal
pickings are enormous
teacup storms pay
what a lark for all of us
three cheers and hooray!
my words, you snort, are feckless
teacup stuff indeed!
those puppy pros were reckless
a drubbing's what they need
after all, as honest fans
we put the game to rights
as good and faithful guardians
we treasure its delights
the weekly magic that we see
in each and every team
the craftsmanship and artistry
of a league supreme
the happy multi-racial mix
of rich exotic skill
the well-loved wiles and novel tricks
which they unveil at will
goalies, both the saints and sinners
rawboned strikers waging war
all the markers and the spinners
showing off their repertoire
teams who work in subtle shifts
creating time and space
streamlined sides with passing gifts
cruising through at pace
aye, we see all sorts and kinds
random styles and trends
we like the clash of coaching minds
how steve attacks, how dave defends
we also keep a wary eye
on business affairs
especially on clubs who tie
their lot to billionaires
to freelance foreign traders
filthy rich somehow
imperious invaders
who simply won't allow
that football deals have fatal flaws
beyond the providence
of hard and fast commercial laws
and private influence
that things are very seldom done
according to the rules
that football's fun and fondly run
by wild romantic fools
who don't insist the game is played
on money-making lines
or that the bills are promptly paid
and sporting straightness shines
through every single give and take
every buy and sell
without a sniff of fix or fake
or faint corrupting smell
without a whiff of wickedness
or scruple of decay
then for sure they'll reap success
the triumph of fair play!
this is utter tripe, you'll think
sheer nonsense, mere cock
our brains are surely on the brink
our reason's run amok
how right you are! we're prey to bouts
of mental wear and tear
prone to dread, abysmal doubts
about the premier
its hire and fire inanities
bully boy aggressions
patronizing vanities
grandiose obsessions
sporting persons? stuff and nonsense!
they engage creative crooks
who will salve their tender conscience
by cooking up the books
who will vouch them chaste and pure
and prudent with their purse
commendations which ensure
queues of customers
gushing kudos which excite
big spenders far and wide
premium stock with prospects bright
plus sweeties on the side
ach, however hard we try
to gloss and reconcile
questions awkward and awry
and answers volatile
however much we fawn or fret
at management technique
pro football, let us not forget
retains a nasty streak
there's no such thing, the cynics sneer
as bad publicity
both profit, press and premier
from whiz kids on the spree
so let's return to those three brats
who cringe in hangdog dread
as a bloodshot man throws brickbats
and the riot act is read
you are, he bellows, finished here
you're all a damned disgrace
collect your things and disappear,
you useless waste of space!
are you so stupid you don't know
how half the city feels?
they're hurting from this hellish blow,
you mindless imbeciles!
tonight would be a special night
they'd sing and sing with pride
spanish giants put to flight
scuttled on a tide
of swelling adulation
from a hymn they call their own
ringing confirmation
that we'll never walk alone
and they'd raise the loudest cheers
great salvoes of applause
for certain lads of tender years
who gladdened them because
they were english through and through
the only ones in sight
a lampard, walcott, butt-like crew
fervent for the fight
bold, tireless types, surefooted
winning tackles, finding spaces
first team choices undisputed
despite our foreign aces
wise old heads on shoulders young
the workaholic sort
stay-at-homes, their ways unsung
or so i bloody thought!
aye, i felt a fool alright
a fall-guy in a farce
i'm flying high about tonight
then landing on my arse
life can spring surprises
just when hopes are high
you're suddenly in crisis
slapbang in the public eye
we're in a mess, you cretins
the squad is under stress
a world-class outfit threatens
to stymie our success
a draw's no use! we've got to win
if we are to progress
but i can't see it happen
not a chance unless . . .
he pierces them with laser gaze
goes very calm and still
and in a while he quietly says
. . . we work a miracle
show the bastards that we're strong
in body and in mind
scour the midfield, scrap dingdong
play it dirty and refined
graft and grind from start to finish
concentrate like hell
emphasise our english
spirit's fit and well
hit them hard, man-mark, harass
keep their maestros on a leash
don't allow a killer pass
tackle tigerish
startled, the three culprits sneak
a collective squint
they gulp for air, their knees go weak
is this some sort of hint?
no, they're not the ones he means
he's talking to the wall
he sees them merely as have-beens
no further use at all . . .
and, he continues, you will play
the football of your lives
you'll stride out there and join the fray
for ninety minutes and no skives
from first to last you will produce
a stint both raw and rich
and you shall not run out of juice
or vomit on the pitch
the doctors' tests were scrupulous
we've got their certain word
you've suffered nothing serious
no toxins in the blood
but, they warn, morale is low
the pressure is immense
so their answer must be no
you're lacking confidence
no sweat! i'll get you into shape
we still have hours to go
and for a start let's now escape
the ratpack down below
who scrape and scurry everywhere
spraying windy vapour
dressed in electronic ware
waving bits of paper
they infect our stadium
these uninvited guests
an obnoxious, prickly scrum
of public pests
come along! don't worry
soon we shall take flight
flit from all this flurry
to where it's nice and quiet
aye, fly away and stay aloof
from a media gone mad
our pilot's waiting on the roof
by his helipad
he'll waft us to his country house
half an hour away
and there you will relax and browse
on what i've got to say
in fine, just show the fans you care
you've made their day a hell
so win tonight and this i swear
and the owner swears as well
(continuing to part 3 soon)
Copyright ©
eleven7
... [
2012-06-22 06:06:11]
(Date/Time posted on
site)
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