Afterthoughts - Part 1
Date: Saturday, 2nd June 2012 @ 10:30:55 PM AEST
Topic: Sad Poetry


Contributed By: eleven7

dominic duff is tough as teak
and tackles with a will
he has puff and pace and good technique
lots of natural skill

sprays fine passes left and right
dribbles with great flair
his shots are sheer dynamite
he's lethal in the air

stylish, versatile, adept
at back, midfield or wing
he's really vintage class except
he's got this image thing

stick an elbow in a face
scotch a dodgy knee
spike them in a private place
quite accidentally

clip an ankle, rip a shirt
flash a stud or two
hack the markers till they hurt
kick their keeper too

do a nosedive, writhe in pain
just inside the box
send their bullyboys insane
with signs unorthodox

hit a striker, knock him flat
the minute play begins
drop some witty chit and chat
about his origins

such merry ploys are all the fashion
they're premier routine
the bruiser now and the assassin
police our football scene

you cavil like a callow youth
'rules! officials! ref!'
learn, you fool, eternal truth
that clique is dumb and deaf

and blind besides as belfry bats
which honest fans well know
pompous, whistle-happy prats
who like to spoil the show

where am i? yes, the big league boys
don't miss a dirty trick
they heed the coach like clockwork toys
except for dominic

who's quick and bold and twinkle-toed
each week his talents shine
though he won't do as he is told
and keep the party line


at throw-ins, would you credit it
he won't steal half a yard
he's never even merited
a single yellow card

he doesn't spit, he doesn't foul
he doesn't swear or scoff
or hit the deck with stricken howl
to get a fellow off

he won't dispute a stupid flag
scorns to show dissent
he's neither thug nor scallywag
in fact a proper gent

a real sporting paragon
decent through and through
a species nearly dead and gone
rare as diamond blue

fair and square, simon pure
corinthian to the core
a model player and mature
you couldn't ask for more

in point of fact the premier does
its whiz kids nowadays
are primed in tactics devious
and misanthropic ways

hot of head and hard of heart
honed on raw emotions
they wouldn't give a sparrow fart
for gentlemanly notions

see them swank from match to match
bejewelled and tattooed
a harum-scarum home-made batch
exuding attitude

see them flaunt like feisty girls
cosmetic airs and graces
screaming locks or gleaming skulls
on sleek designer faces

every time they notch a goal
see them run amok
they have this bolshie rigmarole
that leaves good folk in shock

jig and jaunt and flap and flip
rave like an imbecile
bare the torso, wave a strip
somersault, cartwheel

cut a gleeful stomach glide
into lush green grass
till you're smothered deep inside
a heaving, seething mass

of sweaty topsy-turvy mates
swopping hugs and snogs
revealing rather rampant traits
and dallying like dogs

while hordes of our newfangled fans
plus millions round tv
thrill to their shenanigans
and raise a mad whoopee

yes, every week that passes
you see indisciplines
filthy rich young asses
dressed up in lion skins

bring dishonour to the game
and do not give a hoot
paw and pant and know no shame
in the manner of the brute

it's but, you say, a bit of fun
a chummy little lark
there's always bonding to be done
on and off the park

oh yes, there's bonding once a week
and also at weekends
except of course for dominic
who diligently spends

his leisure time in sober style
eats fresh and wholesome food
walks wood and field for many a mile
and sleeps as athletes should

it's while he slumbers sweet and sound
his workmates come alive
they make their customary round
of pub and club and dive

swagger in the social swirl
the ritzy ballyhoo
smoke and suck and sniff their fill
swill bucketfuls of brew

city centre razzmatazz
midnight romps and revels
giddy girls ooze oohs and aahs
swoop and stomp like devils

city centre whirligig
hectic razzle-dazzle
rock and rollick, snort and swig
hanker after hassle

tipple till they're tanked enough
to hatch some dizzy jinks
they fancy doing macho stuff
when dripping in their drinks

guzzle lager to the gills
perspire through every pore
snuff and puff and pop more pills
strut the disco floor

stagger, scrabble, lunge and lurch
tip a table, trip a tray
they like a rumpus very much
a bit of aggro and affray

wait, you mutter, what's the point!
there's nothing new in this
our greatest stars would raze a joint
when they went on the *****

what balderdash and babble
what tripe and tommyrot!
you can't compare this rabble
this airy-fairy lot

with real stars, with great ones
who wove a wizard touch
we now breed automatons
work-rate clones and such

backs who huff and hustle
on high-speed forward runs
mid-field men of muscle
who feed the foreign turns

tweedledums and tweedledees
processed artisans
customised nonentities
clockwork fancy dans

where now the spirits fey and free
who teased the combat zones
pure natural ability
fair brimming from their bones

where the ones who played to please
and made the ball sing songs
mavericks whose melodies
silenced rival throngs

where's the ginger pudding
the lean and hungry waif
brave goalies fell to brooding
and no defence stood safe

when these two shimmied up the field
weaving mazy spells
stern rearguards soon rocked and reeled
bamboozled by . . . hell's bells,

you say i'm talking balls again
and frothing like a fool
i'm just a fossil specimen
a jaundiced johnny bull

a rickety old picklehead
with a mindless flaw
perhaps i haven't even heard
of scholes and denis law

you gaze at me and make a face
and swear i bore you stiff
i burble on, i lose the place
my story's gone skew-whiff

why can't i tell it pat and plain
like any normal person
step by step in simple vein
shorn of wild digression

keep it short and tell it straight
knit a steady thread
there's no great need to ventilate
the clutter in my head

cut, you say, the silly frills
ditch them double-quick
stick to goalmouth thrills and spills
awaken dominic!

it's symptomatic everywhere
diversion's now distraction
dumbed-down fans need speedy fare
and instant satisfaction

because their little bits of brain
are made of marzipan
a nitwit hen would quite disdain
their concentration span

dominic, you stipulate!
he's sleeping in his bed
which is where he shall remain
till all my spiel is said

see muck-a-mucks and millionaires
politicos who preen
see city slicks who truck in shares
the prawn and cocktail scene

see belching hordes of hooligans
pewed around the pitch -
our new prefabricated fans
the rabid and the rich

they shame the game, these phonies
these toadies and yahoos
the creeping boardroom cronies
the boyos on the booze

parasites and posers both
oafish and obscene
they aren't there, my holy oath
to see but to be seen

the people's game is going bad
less beauty and more beast
money-grubbing, money-mad
the honest fan gets fleeced

ripped off by greedy plc's
a sordid, thieving set
who gorge themselves on fatcat fees
then leave the club in debt

the grass is green, the ball is round
two teams come out to play
the buzz that used to fill the ground
is now a vulgar bray

a whistle sounds, a match begins
sleek sponsors and execs
watch only hireling manikins
with zeroes on their cheques

yes, bosman times are lucrative
a juicy free-for-all
where every kind of shark and spiv
sets up a market stall

where shyster agents ply their tricks
in every town and region
even tractor outfits from the sticks
now boast a foreign legion

bonanza times! prime telly cash
rich uncles, sugar daddies!
no wonder now the game's awash
in superstars and squaddies

mercenaries everywhere
(the major force is french)
and some indeed have skills to spare
while some prefer the bench

once they've clinched a jammy deal
earn scads of coin per week
a twitchy groin begins to squeal
a hamstring starts to tweak

once they take the gravy train
await the lame laments
flaked cartilage, a pelvic strain
punctured ligaments

they fret and brood excessively
embroider every hurt
even fully fit you'll seldom see
them sweating for the shirt

sure, now and then the odd surprise
arrives from overseas
extra special bargain buys
like the zolas and henrys

but they're mainly heebie-jeebies
careful of their limbs
obsessed with fees and freebies
prone to prickly whims

tripe, you say, most bosman boys
are happy at their work
they're not afraid to play their ploys
where mischief-makers lurk

with strict instructions to shanghai
our fetching foreign aces
to flex the studs and scythe knee-high
and claim some stretcher cases

such guys don't take it easy
they aren't fraught with fears
that hitmen bluff and breezy
will skitter their careers

accomplished players do not skive
but strive for what they get
they know how many beans make five
and readily assert

their mastery of ball mechanics
space and time and motion
they don't indulge in pets and panics
in spasms of emotion


calm and cultured in control
even stopper centre-backs
saunter upfield on a stroll
to pepper the attacks

skiffle with the ball and spray
fine passes with panache
aye, even centre-halves can play
as well as biff and bash

velvet grit and granite verve
power, poise, prowess
double-shuffle, swivel, swerve
with fervour and finesse

versatile, ambitious, clever
their coming fanned a flame
changed completely and forever
the way we play the game

okay, okay! just stop right there
you've gabbled long enough
sure, they've changed the premier
and guzzle at its trough

now, mind i mentioned unco guys
who really do excel
extra special bargain buys
like ronaldo and mikel

well, imported goods like these
eclipse our home-bred stock
because our crack academies
still put back the clock

still focus upon fitness stints
circuits in the gym
touchline jobs and sudden sprints
and finish with a swim

lots of lengthy, sweaty sessions
a dire cross-country run
hour by hour of hot exertions
five-a-sides for fun

too many coaches find it hard
to shed the old for new
do they adapt, do they discard
or maybe wed the two

when fresh ideas from abroad
are mocked as mere gimmicks
their pioneers classed as odd
arty-farty mimics

continental copycats
neurotics on the whole
conditioning our british brats
body, mind and soul


yes, fish grow fur and piggies fly
and moggies flap at mice
and premier managers are shy
and never less then nice

and santa calls on xmas eve
asleigh from land of lapp
romantics thrive on make-believe
and i am talking crap

my views, you say, are quite bizarre
muddled and cock-eyed
our coaching isn't up to par
our rookie lads denied

the fast-track priming that they need
attuned, high-flier themes
the disciplines they have to heed
to realise their dreams

solo tasks and teamwork drills
on and off the ball
a daily dose of basic skills
passing most of all

knowing when to run and pass
spot the channels, sense the space
pass and run on mud or grass
speed it up or slow the pace


when to chase and when to turn
when to mark and track
learn the day is often won
by building from the back

watch good practice from the past
revamped on video
matches with a famous cast
fontaine, eusebio

beckenbauer, johnny haynes
ardiles, charles and such
watch teams of beauty, bite and brains
like the magyars and the dutch

but first of all you watch brazil
in world cup winning ways
a mesmerising spectacle
that makes you gaze and gaze

it seems so nice and easy
their happy, rhythmic dance
so whimsical and breezy
a grand extravagance

garrincha jinking up the wing
the conjuror complete
servicing the future king
on corkscrew pixie feet

blue, green and gold embrace the beat
of maracana drums
it's fanfare time of trick and treat
and here young pele comes

pounces on the dipping cross
cool and debonair
defenders melt like candyfloss
and tackle empty air

hysteria! euphoria!
a rapturous salute
the carnival goes all gaga
as he contrives to shoot

twist 'n shake, jig 'n jive
dizzy pirouette
right foot strike, a raking drive
it's whizzing for the net

goal! a goal! a rocket goal!
bossa nova bliss
sambas rock and bongos roll
and . . . ach, i'm miles amiss

my fancy flies in ecstasy
minding such great play
zagalo, vava, didi
they waft my wits away


they didn't posture or oppress
niggle or annoy
theirs was a purist business
messengers of joy

whose artistry could never bore
or tax a teenage head
deploy them at your teaching core
brazil from a to z

aye, coach the basics week by week
from films such as these
teamwork, tempo and technique
solo expertise

freeze the action, analyse
test it on the field
disregard the groans and sighs
as brutal truth's revealed

pleasing patterns on a screen
seem so smooth and sane
now they find this mean machine
is patented on pain

yes, it seemed a doddle
football at a blink
but this exclusive model
isn't what they think


circles, diamonds and triangles
loop and link and flit and flow
tie the other sides in tangles
one-touch, two-touch, quick-quick-slow

lose the ball, so win it back
pursue it with aggression
harass and harry as a pack
till you retrieve possession

start again but stay alert
don't go hell-for-leather
it takes serenity and sweat
to put this act together

it takes an age to grasp each move
to groove and improvise
and early training sessions prove
a horrible surprise

confusion! clutter! utter mess!
it's quite impossible
and very far from effortless
this blueprint of brazil!

the wise coach knows the difference
what's easy on the eye
derives from constant diligence
and comes in short supply

aptitude is not enough
nor fitness, strength and speed
if you aspire to big league stuff
it's inner drive you need

unflagging single-mindedness
he tells each wannabe
there's the ticket to success
the vital quality

the coach, mind you, can get it wrong
beset by ifs and buts
he sifts and culls the soft and strong
the maybes from the mutts

he vetoes some erratic kid
who neither marks nor shoots
two seasons on a million quid
won't buy his sponsored boots

pro football is a funny game
star-crazy and star-crossed
for every upstart who wins fame
ten thousand more are lost

a lottery! pure hit-or-miss
fickle fortune's whim
one minute they cry god, gee whiz
we've got to go for him


he really looks the beckham part
the perfect p r dream
the next they reckon he lacks heart
he's surplus to the team

anyway, it's puskas now
1950's superman
and many soccer buffs avow
the eternal number one

budding starlets need to study
this wee guy overweight
no, i'm not being fuddy-duddy
he's the greatest of the great

a paunchy cove of major rank
bull neck and barrel chest
a pocket tank who ate and drank
with earthy zeal and zest

see his left, a polished peg
in deft and dandy mode
yet deadly as a powder keg
ever ready to explode

caps eighty-four, goals eighty-three
scored with that same foot
the other leg just dangled free
and his heading was a hoot


he led them to exalted levels
his squad of superstars
the mighty magyars, the red devils
hungary's proud hussars

they played with bite and beauty
shored by classy backs
puskas, czibor, hideghuti
in lickety-split attacks

spot-on passing, supple roles
made scoring swift and sweet
netted them a glut of goals
against the world's elite

they came to wembley, won six - three
though england did their best
then, insult upon injury
seven - one in budapest

twelve and twenty, thirty-two
matches undefeated
imagine! is it really true?
will it ever be repeated!

by then a near veteran . .
retirement? god forbid!
no, he mapped a better plan
he'd settle in madrid


di stéfano's already there
another ageless star
today's caudillos don't compare
mere shrimps to caviar

the great blond arrow's will to win
wouldn't let him stop
even though his hair was wearing thin
he'd plenty still on top

he'd graze on every blade of grass
and time could not diminish
the impromptu move, the elusive pass
the smooth majestic finish

and paco gento rates a mention
a manic box of tricks
defenders quaked in apprehension
developed nervous tics

big strapping backs fell gibbering
shivered in their skins
whenever he zipped down the wing
on perky little pins

he'd skip and scoot and loop the loop
prankish as a puppy
he's cock a snook and cock-a-hoop
practise keepie-uppie!

they're soon a virtuoso side
in a brand-new bernabeau
and on a glorious copa ride
five europas in a row

sure, coach with cameo and clip
choose key material
but for sheer craftsmanship
show eintracht v real

a final with a message stark
for zenophobic sorts
one summer night at hampden park
jam-packed with roaring scots

who hadn't seen this stuff before
and rooted in high spirits
fast, flowing football on the floor
served up for ninety minutes

plus goals in plenty! seven - three
despite some staunch defence
a rare, exotic recipe
a feast of excellence

by god, these foreign guys were good
two sides with skills to spare
they basically understood
a bladder full of air

moves much faster than a man
and hit with vim and vision
precision passing truly can
confuse the opposition

the scots applaud them to the skies
and strangely do not quibble
when not a single player tries
a good old-fashioned dribble

zig and zag and twist and turn
tease them to a tizzy
do a shimmy, dummy run
drive defenders dizzy

swerve and swivel, come and go
back and fore and fore and back
wiggle-waggle to and fro
show a wizard knack

oh yes, it's wonderful to watch
it titillates, beguiles
yet hardly ever wins a match
despite these weird wiles

yes, such art enthrals the masses
ballwork brave and droll
but by the time the artiste passes
or has a crack at goal

the rearguard has rallied
ramparts are restored
because he dilly-dallied
and totally ignored

his wing-backs overlapping
his strikers finding space
they're frothing now and flapping
and purple in the face

now the box is cluttered
with bodies bellicose
obnoxious words are muttered
and curses come to blows

baulk and jostle, cheek by jowl
skirmish tooth and nail
but, one eye shut, the ref cries foul
it's all to no avail

once again a chance is lost
and he has hurt the team
if only he had passed or crossed
not dribbled in a dream

likely they'd have caused a shock
heroes to a man
with but a minute on the clock
they'd win it zero-one!

ach, dreams are two-a-penny
eintracht and real
pay scant regard if any
to things imaginal

these maestros, though, can dribble too
it's there for all to see
but selfish sideshows they eschew
they do it differently

see that small one, strongly built
bursting down the middle
like an arrow, at full tilt
without one twirl or twiddle

a mere twitching of the hips
a bit of buttock jigging
befools the back before he rips
a rocket at the rigging

see yon midfield he-man
dispensing grief and dole
once in a while this demon
as if to ease his soul

chooses to caress the ball
flirts with it instead
then light of foot and lyrical
he sallies on ahead


jinks and juggles up the field
leaves tacklers in the lurch
it's plain as day this link and shield
enjoys an angel's touch

hurries forward at full lick
with subtle skews and tacks
phantom feints and fetches slick
hoodwink the centre-backs

no indeed, he's not a dreamer
who doodles on the job
now he shapes to hit a screamer
dupes the keeper with a lob

the film catches it fine well
solo, ad-lib stuff
real and eintracht personnel
who dribble off the cuff

who wow the crowd as you'd expect
excite and tantalise
with sorties sudden and direct
and shots that pop the eyes

mind you, the crowd's already wowed
by magic carpet skills
already marvels long and loud
at constant miracles

they say it was the greatest game
the best there's ever been
a million fans still fondly claim
their presence on the scene

still can't resist a chronic need
to tell a first-hand tale
kick by kick and screed on screed
they dazzle with detail

(it wasn't normal british fare
no, this was master class
the ball refused to go by air
preferred to stay on grass

god's truth, but every blessed guy
however much harassed
scorned to put it in the sky
and passed and passed and passed)

they tell each move and counter-move
and what the highlights were
particulars which clearly prove
that they were really there

we pay them due attention
note how proud they feel
it would be rude to question
such undoubted zeal


or mention with a muted yawn
they'd maybe turned up late
since most of them were barely born
on that historic date

nineteen-sixty, may thirteen
a very special night
europe-wide on the telly screen
live in black and white

not a gremlin! no one cursed
or booed the referee!
it was a famous double-first
for football and tv

aye, fans do tend to fantasise
and sometime live the dream
they'll fill you full of mellow lies
to boost their self-esteem

technically, yes, they lie
they weren't there in person
so what! since then they've seen the tie
in each and every version

and still they tingle and enthuse
and sniffle happy tears
still hold the same unshrinking views
after fifty years!


this was stuff they didn't see
on saturday afternoon
fine-spun football flowing free
to a quickstep tune

the real thing! the people's game
in all its simple glory
absolutely not the same
old rough and tumble story

the same stale sport of kick and rush
crush the so-and-so's
forget all goody-goody mush
respecting fellow pros

hurt the strikers, do not spare
the sure two-footed crunch
catch their skipper in the air
with a rabbit punch

tackle like a terrier
maul them front and back
flash the studs until you hear
a metatarsal crack

up and at them every chance
don't give a devil's damn
adopt the fierce aggressive stance
you picked up in your pram . . .



dads and granddads most of all
would glower at the scene
go berserk on the couch and bawl
for god's sake, get stuck in!

of course it was the same at school
a playground education
enforcers proud and purposeful
ruled through confrontation

stroppy brutes who kicked you silly
dished it out dingdong
until you kowtowed willy-nilly
and bootlicked to belong

because you had begun to twig
those rough and raw cadets
those rowdy brats so bad and big
were also teachers' pets

aye, agents, touts and top team scouts
crowded the touch-lines
come to watch these catchment louts
the champion under-nines

soften up a rival side
buffet them to bits
then ruthless as the roaring tide
launch a scoring blitz

goodness and mercy have they none
they just pound on pell-mell
and though the league's already won
the county shield as well

they know that spotters hover
to monitor their play
alert for boys who bovver
and flourish in a fray

alert for pre-teen sluggers
fit and tall and tough
mean, accomplished muggers
professional enough

not to dither or get shoddy
or skylark for a laugh
get that gifted, little body
slice the squirt in half

give and take but mostly give
do what you must do
prove that you're competitive
vicious through and through

put the challenge in waist high
claim it was mischance
watch him wave the game goodbye
from an ambulance

weaving through, he took the whack
a knee-cap snapped in pieces
now he's writhing on his back
as aspiration ceases

officials shrug, his dad is told
rules are rules, good heavens
the lad's at least a month too old
to stay at under-sevens

we do our best, we organise
we're always strict and straight
but leagues don't run on strength and size
or sides of equal weight

we operate the proper way
at each succeeding stage
our system's much more workaday
it's simply based on age

they're all mad keen to make the team
these nippy lads and small
they're like the cats that got the cream
when summoned to the ball

by mad keen teacher coaches
who pick their squads with care
who loath seeing kids on crutches
or wheeling in a chair


so it goes! the people's game
is goodly yet uncouth
sometimes savage, sometimes tame
rough as well as smooth

a devilish affliction
a heavenly allure
a general addiction
beyond all earthly cure

beyond all rhyme and reason
it consumes the human race
season after season
besots the populace

frantic fans in fervent moods
infest its grassy shrines
the faithful in their multitudes
chanting mantras, making signs

savouring the sacred joys
eating pies and taking sips
greeting shrill their golden boys
divine in skin-tight strips

for goodness' sake, do get a grip
the irksome voices whine
this stuff's thin on zing and zip
and slight on storyline


you fart about and flap and flail
a hopeless, headless chicken
is it so hard to spin a tale
that makes the pulses quicken

you just meander on and on
like a blatherskite
mouthing off a marathon
of psychobabble *****e

they're often right, the voices
(and usually civil)
attentive with advices
seldom spouting drivel

this time, though, they reckon wrong
i'm really in control
my story's on the ball and strong
i've got a clear goal

mind that little, likely lad
stretchered off the pitch
and mind his apoplectic dad
railing round and rich

at those official flannelled fools
in blazers and school ties
who blandly state that rules are rules
then blink their mildewed eyes


do they truly still believe
the sporting spirit lives?
are they truly so naive
those smooth executives

those backseat power blocs who bask
in structures obsolete
who stare in shock when parents ask
why children should compete

and why should dates-of-birth decide
the grades where pupils play
surely size and strength provide
a better, fairer way?

okay, okay! no more harangues!
please don't say any more
don't rant and rage and bare the fangs
we've heard it all before!

yes, nineteen-sixty, may thirteen
when millions fell in thrall
to football ways just newly seen
from eintracht and real

and things would never be the same
it was the wind of change
our hack-and-hoof-it native game
would soon seem passing strange

soon we'd see fine streamlined teams
instead of innocents
but sometimes, ach, our best-laid schemes
are subject to events

situations will arise
often unforeseen
realities that paralyse
perhaps what might have been

aye, folk of every stripe and sort
were more or less agreed
we'd need to remedy or rot
our game had run to seed

slack on art and aptitude
on style that entertains
our tactics less than half as good
as germany or spain's

so we raised a ready chorus
craved a speedy fix
lord preserve us and restore us
we got sixty-six!

hail the heroes! chant and sing and
union jacks unfurled
salute alf ramsay's ing-er-land
champions of the world!


our matches were at wembley
every single one
a home-sweet-home assembly
strictly partisan

at first, though, many fans went flat
aghast at what they saw
now what would finney make of that!
would matthews gape in awe!

for on the field our pick and prime
were doing shameful things
perpetrating football crime -
playing without wings!

it gets worse! where's jimmy greaves
the greatest in the land?
i swear to god, our gaffer leaves
him sitting in the stand

he isn't suitable at all
he cannot be controlled
he'll do wonders with a ball
but won't do as he's told

a nifty, nippy cockney star
who scores majestic goals
he's alpha plus, a vintage car
unfit for common roles


see him nip and see him dart
a wily, weaving wisp
adept at ripping walls apart
with passes slick and crisp

he'll work unwearied in attack
inventive and prolific
but marking, tackling, tracking back
his attitude's horrific

which is why he earns a snub
why heels are all he kicks
because there's neither bench nor sub
in nineteen sixty-six

well, our wingless wonders
enjoy their share of luck
they make some early blunders
but do not run amuck

they stick with ramsay's vision
the drills which he devised
despite the shrill derision
of a nation scandalised

by argy-bargy antics
and much midfield ado
it wasn't for romantics
this four-four-two


a trim and shipshape name to call
a system short on image
a shambolic, messy brawl
a ninety-minute scrimmage!

of course it's since been civilised
it's now much prized and pure
even then wise coaches recognised
its tactical allure

anyway, they see it through
all very grim and gory
sweat blood as they were bid to do
and bless their splendid goalie

defend in depth, we mustn't lose
our honour is at stake
just play it tight until we choose
to hit them on the break

be dogged if not dashing
rugged, not refined
give their pivots a good bashing
stamp on all that kind

but don't concede, the gaffer said
stand your ground gung-ho
you sneak a goal, you go ahead
your confidence will grow


besides, it happens often
even tip-top teams
drop their iron discipline
when pestered to extremes

it isn't pretty but it works
you knock them off their stride
you clean their faces free of smirks
and prick their lordly pride

sure, this system isn't pretty
but winning ugly's not a sin
what matters is the nitty-gritty
our country's willing us to win

indeed it is! forget the sneers
forget the gloom and doom
listen to the swell of cheers
from terrace, pub and room

from wherever people watch
on pins and needles, in a stew
till a wallop seals the match
pips the germans four-two

a wicked strike, a shot sublime
as both sides gasp and grind
as panic spreads in extra-time
(no spot-kicks then, you'll mind)


there goes the whistle! what a story
not at all a fairy-tale
alfie's heroes crowned in glory
capture football's holy grail

the final whistle! great elation
celebrations last for weeks
fans dilate with admiration
on the tactics and techniques

which our mastermind devised
to deny the very best
the guile with which he organised
his players for the test

just turn the key and lock the door
resist with tooth and claw
remember if they do not score
the least you get's a draw

so block and chase and cramp their space
declare a buffer zone
a rougher, more unwelcome place
than they have ever known

dent their jaunty foreign phlegm
let their tempers spill
then if jackie doesn't get them
nobby surely will


see their full-backs feeling surplus
since they've nobody to mark
off they go to join the rumpus
in the middle of the park

from their peaceful little acre
safe and sound and well-secured
yes, our canny mischief-maker
has conveniently lured

this twosome from the touchline beat
they've trodden seasons long
and, yes, the ruse has worked a treat
his gambit can't go wrong

since now there's lots of space to spare
for instant flank attacks
forays easy to prepare
thanks to absent backs

well, the signal's nothing special
an upfield punt as planned
nicely kicked as at rehearsal
into no man's land

then a surge, a scorching cross
across the box on cue
their centre-backs lurch at a loss
outnumbered five to two


aye, we've a streaker on the wing
and a striker like an ox
plus three midfielders in full swing
swooping on their box

stretching for a killer touch
to clinch an edgy tie
we want that winner very much
clouted hard and high

so there you are! a great success
our four-four-two in essence
defensive boredom to excess
with blinks of effervescence

yet here, there and everywhere
at home and work and play
you'll find that folk no longer care
what the scoffers have to say

folk who now strut ten feet tall
declare with emphasis
we mustn't change our style at all
just keep it as it is

we've got to stick to this routine
our youth must not be gulled
we're neither hackneyed nor has-been
we're champions of the world!


and being ranked at number one
warrants we're high class
so any borrowed new-look plan
would now be merely crass

well, folk are much in favour
the bulk of them say yes
let's all rejoice and savour
the pickings of success

such good fun, such merry sport
the fleeting taunt, the passing tease
and so agreeable to gloat
at ancient enemies

which means, of course, the bagpipe tribes
a boozy lot quite lost to shame
exuding anti-saxon vibes
they belch through every game

but, typical, those pesky scots
are having none of this
they've a surprise for patriots
who try to take the *****

alas, next season they're the first
to pay a wembley visit
devil take them! we're accursed
while they are pure exquisite



To be continued .... Part 2 soon!

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