Took Nic's suggestion off in another direction.
Rhyming poetry isn't really my forte, but I had fun penning this to give my brain a little stretch.
A is for Anfield,
off to church we all go.
The twelfth man's a drunkard
but when he wakes up you'll know.
He sleeps in most weekends
he's been out on the lash
but when a cup's on the line
his hangover has passed.
B is for beers
Best got them in quick.
You best bring none in,
or you'll be in the nick.
C is for Carlsberg
whose very catchphrase concedes
that others may be better
so refer back to B.
D is for dipper,
not the bitter manc slur
that they type from their basements
while their mum isn't there.
No the kind from our Riise
in warmups, you see,
well somebody didn't;
that child in row B.
"E is for earning
a debut for the reds
not sleepwalking about
for £30,000 instead,"
said F (the Fat arse
sat next to me)
he moans the whole game
if we're not up by three.
G is for gasping
of all different kinds;
hit crossbars, tipped saves,
when they get in behind.
H is for Hyppia
who is so fucking sound
he can play a whole game
without going to ground,
we've seen him clash heads
return bandaged and bloody
and who won the next header?
that slow as fuck mummy.
I is for inklings;
we feel goals impending,
J is for nerves jangled
if its our boys defending.
K is the Kop
sucking in Luis's goal
and liverpool’s the L
not Gala's stadium, you trolls.
M is for marvels;
Gerrard's screamers, incredible.
Or, how Djimi and Josemi
have Champions League medals.
N is for narked
at things not falling in place:
at the header that's cleared,
at the shot off the brace,
at the ball that won't drop,
but mostly
at that ref's ugly face.
O is for offense
the old attack attack attack
and by that I don't mean
long balls from the back.
P could be for profundities
pride and passion vs. profits,
but it's just for scouse pie,
and its horrible shits.
Q is for the querying
of every single decision,
with seconds to go
every brush is collision,
and though card-happy refs
bear the brunt of derision
it's not all their fault
when there is television.
R is for reaching, with
lazy if's and excuses
talking corners, possession,
wind, and referee abuses.
S is for songs;
prayers to piss-takes,
they all have their purpose,
so sing for fucks sake!
T is for time-wasting
from either side,
this is a tradition
I'd prefer would just die.
For honest timewasting
seek Hamann as your guide,
in extra time touches
his black magic is plied.
U is for the underated
the "tidy little players"
that clean up every week
and ignore the naysayers.
V is for victory
hard won, hard fought
grasped in dying embers,
comprehensive or taut.
But W is for W’s
it is so often said
“a win is a winâ€
it is numbers, it’s dead
Undeserved, snatched, stolen
stop pondering, instead,
let’s tuck it in a column
and put 3 to bed.
X is for Xabi,
not for passes long, short and sweet,
but coz’ if his name was Santos
this poem’s incomplete.
Y is for Youth
not talent that’s budding
but footballing magic;
old men dancing, leaping, hugging.
Z is for the zoo,
from all walks we seek rest
in fun pointless bickering
and pissing contests.
In this forum we skive,
procrastinate and regress.
Yet no matter what fences
and truths are professed,
we are all children born
of shankly’s best.
Rhyming poetry isn't really my forte, but I had fun penning this to give my brain a little stretch.
A is for Anfield,
off to church we all go.
The twelfth man's a drunkard
but when he wakes up you'll know.
He sleeps in most weekends
he's been out on the lash
but when a cup's on the line
his hangover has passed.
B is for beers
Best got them in quick.
You best bring none in,
or you'll be in the nick.
C is for Carlsberg
whose very catchphrase concedes
that others may be better
so refer back to B.
D is for dipper,
not the bitter manc slur
that they type from their basements
while their mum isn't there.
No the kind from our Riise
in warmups, you see,
well somebody didn't;
that child in row B.
"E is for earning
a debut for the reds
not sleepwalking about
for £30,000 instead,"
said F (the Fat arse
sat next to me)
he moans the whole game
if we're not up by three.
G is for gasping
of all different kinds;
hit crossbars, tipped saves,
when they get in behind.
H is for Hyppia
who is so fucking sound
he can play a whole game
without going to ground,
we've seen him clash heads
return bandaged and bloody
and who won the next header?
that slow as fuck mummy.
I is for inklings;
we feel goals impending,
J is for nerves jangled
if its our boys defending.
K is the Kop
sucking in Luis's goal
and liverpool’s the L
not Gala's stadium, you trolls.
M is for marvels;
Gerrard's screamers, incredible.
Or, how Djimi and Josemi
have Champions League medals.
N is for narked
at things not falling in place:
at the header that's cleared,
at the shot off the brace,
at the ball that won't drop,
but mostly
at that ref's ugly face.
O is for offense
the old attack attack attack
and by that I don't mean
long balls from the back.
P could be for profundities
pride and passion vs. profits,
but it's just for scouse pie,
and its horrible shits.
Q is for the querying
of every single decision,
with seconds to go
every brush is collision,
and though card-happy refs
bear the brunt of derision
it's not all their fault
when there is television.
R is for reaching, with
lazy if's and excuses
talking corners, possession,
wind, and referee abuses.
S is for songs;
prayers to piss-takes,
they all have their purpose,
so sing for fucks sake!
T is for time-wasting
from either side,
this is a tradition
I'd prefer would just die.
For honest timewasting
seek Hamann as your guide,
in extra time touches
his black magic is plied.
U is for the underated
the "tidy little players"
that clean up every week
and ignore the naysayers.
V is for victory
hard won, hard fought
grasped in dying embers,
comprehensive or taut.
But W is for W’s
it is so often said
“a win is a winâ€
it is numbers, it’s dead
Undeserved, snatched, stolen
stop pondering, instead,
let’s tuck it in a column
and put 3 to bed.
X is for Xabi,
not for passes long, short and sweet,
but coz’ if his name was Santos
this poem’s incomplete.
Y is for Youth
not talent that’s budding
but footballing magic;
old men dancing, leaping, hugging.
Z is for the zoo,
from all walks we seek rest
in fun pointless bickering
and pissing contests.
In this forum we skive,
procrastinate and regress.
Yet no matter what fences
and truths are professed,
we are all children born
of shankly’s best.
