This is not just poetry…

He would have rather been a footballer than a poet.

In his school you got twatted

just for knowing what a sonnet was

and your sexuality was called into question

if you used any kind of metaphor other than ‘Dickhead.’

Understanding iambic pentameters

wasn’t quite the same as knowing what the offside rules were.

He just knew that he was offside


Relegated from their team just for knowing a rhyme scheme.

When he walked through a storm

He’d get pissed wet through

He was generally on his own and holding his head up high was highly unlikely

Unless somebody else’s hand was around his neck

Ramming his head up against a changing room door

that was locked from the inside and crammed full of testosterone fuelled spectators

Speculating that someone would be getting

a good kick in.

Foul play

Every day.

But the noise from The Kop made it all just stop

as the rhythm of Shankly’s

“Pass move receive the ball

Pass move receive the ball”

brought him poetic justice with a four three three formation

and for a ninety minute duration

was enough to allow him to close his eyes and play keepy uppy

With words.

Tackling alliteration



Dangerously Defending

then driving forward

Dribbling Down

towards the opponents goal.

Out of his area he didn’t care

realistically he knew that his chances of scoring

were nil.

But the sound of The Kop

Raised him up

Made him want to sing at the top of his poetic lungs


Sta anza



And chant at those on his opposing side

“Come and write a poem if you think you’re bard enough!”

But they wouldn’t know what a bard was unless he had a number on the back of his shirt

and it was a well known fact that Shakespeare was shit at team games.

He would have rather been a footballer than a poet.

As he grow older he would come to accept

That he would never be in their league

That he was more Keats than Keegan.

but back then it haunted him

Like an own goal

Back when it wasn’t just a matter of life and death

It was more important than that.


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