Poet's Corner

Bluedub

Bluedub

Alert Team
I don't know who wrote these beautiful pieces but they're doing the rounds on social media so I felt I should share.


‘Twas the 10th of December,
Reds 8 points behind,
Mourinho was planning,...
Not one clue could he find.
Men against boys,
And this was no friendly,
2-1 at home,
Silva, Otamendi.

‘It’s not fair!’ - he whined,
He did curse and did cuss,
‘If only I’d done anything,
But park that big bus.’
It drove him insane, to the land of cuckoo,
Two assists from the clown - Romelu Lukaku.

Beaten at home for the whole world to see,
‘I know!’ said Jose,
‘I’ll blame the referee!’
Nobody laughed, it wasn’t too funny,
‘But..but...,’ came the cry,
‘At least we earn our own money!’

Unimpressed as they were,
With their teams lowly feats,
All that was left was to sing:
‘Empty seats!’
Worn out old songs,
And dreary sad rhymes,
Still living on the treble,
Hollow chants of ‘20 times’.
When all’s said and done they’re left feeling bereft,
Ranting on about history,
As it’s all they’ve got left.

The reds fans went home, in a collective trance,
To Dublin and Belfast, London, Penzance.
But all that mattered after, by a quarter to seven,
Was the eight point gap had now grown to eleven.”
 
A sozzled Slur Alex beckons Milky Moo:



"With “Not in my lifetime “ echoing still,
In the paint needing halls of the Swamp.
On his second bottle of wine,
And a fist full of pills,
He remembers past days in their pomp.

You’re showing us up for just what we are,
What we were except for one thing.
It all was much better when I was in charge,
And everyone thought I was king.

With them breaking records and us breaking nowt,
We’re pretenders consigned to our tomb.
It’s all fun and games ‘til an eye’s taken out.
Just stay in your own dressing room.

You should have shown more before our home crowd,
Deflections and lies of bare face.
Complaining about the ref and the music’s too loud.
Just wait ‘til we go around their place.

They’ll eat you alive, You’re not up to the task,
Why the hell did I ever agree.
You’re no better than Moyes or the Dutch Horse’s ass.
They’ll smell blood and go on a goal spree.

I’ll finish this glass and pop a few pills,
But nothing can ever dull this pain.
That crowd across the road are serving up thrills,
While we serve up piss in the rain.

You’re lucky you only were hit with sour milk,
When you ran into Eddie and Delph.
I’m sick of the sight of you and your ilk.
Get out or I’ll bottle you myself."
 
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