George Best’s Balls

poetry

After 20 minutes of boredom,
Handbags at the ready,
Tempers flared,
Like 80s hair,
Gone in a flash,
Materialized into blue,
Just like Doctor Who,
And they call it football,
Now played by millionaires,
Owned by the rich and foreign,
Ignorant wages,
With brainless no talented idiots,
Wasteful passing,
Thug like tackles, Fellaini, yes you,
Messing up 70s hair, Mr Leo Sayer,
Days have gone,
Of real footballers,
Living the dream,
Happy with a ball at their feet,
Of scoring goals,
In any old way,
Now we shoot from distance,
Play the long ball,
Pitch flooded with tactics,
Managers playing chess,
Everyone dreams of the past,
And the balls of George Best,
When goalkeepers played with broken necks,
And Steve Bruce always broke his nose,
Today’s footballers out for the season,
If some damn daisy had stood on their toes,
Foreign talent gave us something different,
But it’s corroded the English game away,
The only thing left English in this game,
Are the hotpots and pies on display,
Days of whacking the ball,
And do or die heading are dead,
With a ball so lightweight and fragile,
Balls are curled and placed instead,
Managers don’t last a year now,
Wages are through the roof,
Idiots with more money than sense,
Gamble away a century of history,
So do you play for the badge son?
Or are you thinking of your Audi RS 5 coupe,
Get football back to basics,
Maybe the fans will come back one day.
 ©D.Hobson December 2013
Advertisements

One thought on “George Best’s Balls

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s