I’ve not been writing much of late, but, unsurprisingly, here are a couple of poems related to the present obsession and which require posting before the 3 pm (BST)deadline! The one written today is first and they pretty much cover the options!
So, “Come on, my bonnies” (as one of the Mansfield Town supporters used to shout at Field Mill back in the 60s).
For Harry, England and St. George
The banners are flying, the pundits installed.
Could this be the year that the Lions don’t get mauled?
We’ve laid the old spectre of failure to rest:
those penalty shootouts with us second best.
We hover twixt gloom and wild optimism
Oh, for a clairvoyant’s crystal ball prism.
The vagaries of fortune, the chance of success,
seem stacked in our favour – well, more or less –
since Germany’s out and no Brazil or Spain.
Uruguay, Argentina can’t win again,
though “Old Enemy”, France, still lurks in the wings.
As long as Sweden don’t run round us in rings,
England’s boys will be men through History’s lens.
(Fingers George crossed it won’t end up with pens.)
The excitement is bubbling to fever pitch.
A bloke in the pub claimed there won’t be a hitch.
Here’s hoping we’ll all be glued to the screen
and dreaming of glory for 2018.
World Cup Sucker
Switch on the TV at the set or remote.
Whatever the channel, we’re in the same boat.
What have we in store and what will it usher?
It’s World Cup Football wall to wall from Russia.
The flags are out flying from roofs and high places.
They’re even painted on kids’ and grown-ups’ faces.
Whether cross of St. George or Union Jack;
bright French tricolore; (none of them is black);
a rising sun from Japan; Swiss cross white on red;
lots of other countries’ flags, I can’t get in my head.
We’ll wave them forever and loudly cheer, no doubt.
Well, maybe not forever, just until we’ve been knocked out!