Jules Rimet World Cup Football Poetry

The Bard done Well!

Le Foot poets meet at the end of each street
The Anfields, The Bridges, The Parks
We don’t have an editor hiring our pens
Or an agent who wipes every a*se!

The literary sorts who staulk through the halls
And tell us whose names on the list
"Essential to read" it will make yer head bleed
Think I’ll give this match a miss!

Now our names won’t be found on the merry go round
Of the BBC best books to read
No "Richard and Judy" or "Morning with Frost"
So stick yer Whitbreads up just where yer please!

Now onto the World Cup the cause of such fuss
Metaphors Metatarsals the rage
“Is this a boot stud I see before me?”
Poor players played out on the stage

Ah The Beautiful Game is a colour of noise
Banners and flags brought along
The heroes and villains the fouls that destroy
The saints who we name in our songs

The history revered in the legends we’ve loved
The Peles and Banksies galore
The ghost of Garrincha whose heart never tired
Like his legs that could charm with a ball

Rossi a devil whose name went in lights
Those goals found a home in our hearts
The Belgian defence that was split with a knife
Maradona like Moses could part

Cruyff how he turned melt his bones like an eel
Platini wove spells on the pitch
Gemmill set off on his glorious trail
The Dutch were beguiled and bewitched

ZiZou and Les Blues were a vision indeed
When they put to the sword Ronnie’s men
The feverous strains the new "La Marseillaise"
Mightier still than Le Pen

Eusebio’s skills they were brought to the stage
And they burned with a passion unknown
Zico a prince with his lightning rod boots
At home like a King on his throne

“Der Kaiser” so cool with a visionary style
Perfected in Bayern’s backyard
Van Basten a master drawn from the Dutch School
Gentile well named, he was hard!

Tardelli’s passion could not be ignored
Jules Rimet watched Gazza in tears
Ticker Taped Kempes played out on the floor
Bobby Robson he aged 20 years!

Houghton went tumbling as Italy fell
Lineker’s hattrick was sound
Hagi was magic and Letchkov a trap
That Germans just couldn’t get round

Roger Milla he shimmied his Presleyian hips
Valderrama his hair looked on fire
Nelinho did benders that fooled every wall
Butcher gave blood sweat desire

Alartichoechea's impossible save
His almost impossible name
Is there a doctor right here in the house?
Ask for Socrates after the game!

Rattin was forced to take back his shirt
What a Pickles we’ve lost the World Cup
Toto Schillaci his eyes popping wild
Ally McCloud still can’t look!

Negrete's scissors cut him a place
The Reggae Boyz partied all night
The Mexican Wave could seen out in space
Whilst the star Baggio shone so bright

Rivaldo beat Schmeichel the Great Dane was done
Mooro from Barking a god
Owen goes solo his hamstrings intact
Clive Thomas blew “No goal” the sod!

Keegan’s big perms do these lads never learn
Collina he don’t need a brush
Ray Wilkins just strolls with a nonchalant air
The artiste formerly known as Butch

Bestie showed up with a girl on each arm
Beckham shows up with his wife
Waddle and Psycho paid with terrace jeers
Escobar paid with his life

Yes the Beautiful Game is a colour of noise
As we wrap ourselves up in our flags
Shout from the settees and cheer on our boys
Or cover our heads with our hands!

Oh the Beautiful Game is a colour of noise
The World Cup as everyone knows
God grant us Wayne Rooney a rapid return
And don’t dare step on Stevie G’s toes!

Breaking new ground can tough oh for sure
And with Football and Verse it is hard
The literary sorts quickly bolt up the doors
Cos my muse is a footy mad bard

Well Shakespeare is lost in a midsummer dream

Up in heaven he inks up his quill

Princes and Kings of the pitch catch his prose

He's a footy mad Bard is our Bill!

 

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"Revenge his foul..." (Hamlet)

 

 

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The Bard and the Beautiful Game

Hamlet planning in defence
The best way to attack
Macbeth with blood and thunder
And his missus on his back
King Lear he blames the weather
Whilst his girls they just swap sides
Henry scores 4 for Hotspur
As John Falstaff sets up 5
Richards 2 and 3 they plot
And push attack with force
Nursie spots a chink or two
She just can't stay the course
Watch out for Iago
Cos he fouls and traps with lies
Whilst Romeo is lost in books
And luuurve and deepest sighs
Shylock measures options
But sweet Portia has him licked
Othello's wracked with self doubt
But that Puck's a bag o' tricks
Yorrick "On me 'ed son"
As Macduff he lays one on
Brutus covers Caesar's back
A quick "Et Tu" then gone
Oberon is magic but
King Duncan's lost the ball
Gloucester plays a blinder
Edmund's whipping up a storm
Nick Bottom scores with fever pitch
A certain style he has
Tho' Titania now sees through him
And she sniffs "He's just an ass!"

© Jules Rimet

The Bard would probably adopt a more traditional iambic pentametre formation whilst at the same time pricking his thumb at the classical unities style of play!

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Shakespeare "The Scottish Play(ers)"

Macduff untimely goals he rips
Fleance leaves 'em scap'd
Lennox plays on either side
With Angus quiet and staid

Duncan regal in command
But rivals spoil his game
"Is this a foul I see before me"
You just can't get the Thanes!

Malcom waits with stealth to pounce
His virtues rightly sing
Up front Macbeth now racked with doubt
3 sisters tug the strings!

Lady M is losing sleep
Her tactics she reveals
The porter knocks one to the side
Unequivocally

A goal fest promised ends in tears
A game both fair and foul
The terrace chants rain thick as hail
Whilst Ross is on the prowl

"Brave Macbeth" pulls on his boots
And laces up his dreams
But Banquo ghosts around his posts
And rips 'em at the seams!

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world cup football poems julesrimet@hotmail.co.uk