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Tuesday, 30 August 2011

An Italian Romance

I will follow you from port to port
Reggio to Naples and further.
In your white dress shirt
I will follow you
Fitting in at left back
Or centre back
Or on the left of a three at the back
Because really you always have three at the back
How did I forget.

I took you from port to port
Reggio to Naples and further.
Amaranto to Azzurri
I will find a place
To fit you in to my team
Probably on the left
Of three at the back
Because I always play that.

I never score
Hardly run
Not that great in the tackle
But I can be shoehorned in
To any position
On the left or at the back.
This is why you love me
My versatility
And because I cost very little.

The perfect sub
You cover so many positions
I can keep you around
For years and years
I know you'll never grumble
Had I gone to Juve
I'd have taken you there
Flee up to the north
A great return for you
Surely you'd have been
Perfect back up for Chiellini.

Revista de la Liga

I can no longer cope
With watching Revista
And not for the usual reasons,
Not Barcelona
Nor Real Madrid
Could tempt me back again.
It has nothing to do
With Mark Bolton leaving
It's not about Ballagué,
Villarreal, Valencia,
Nothing to do with you.

It's all about Scott Minto
For when I see him on TV,
Something flicks a switch.
I really cannot fathom
How or when it happened
But Scott Minto, lovely chap,
Has stolen Steve Buscemi's face.

Wednesday, 24 August 2011


We are the ITV
Football commentary team
Like Bill and fucking Ben.
Peter Drury,
Melifluous anchor,
Puts the patron in patronise
And Beglin...
Jim Beglin...
A man who lies
About things he's just seen
On a monitor before him.

Pat Rice

"Pat Rice accompanying Arsene Wenger on the Arsenal bench"
We know Clive
We know.
We never forget
The man with the tomato face.
Perpetually redenned,
Always a tear in his eye
Because of Arsene's slaps
And pinches.
He is a cruel mistress,
We know.

Tuesday, 23 August 2011

The Non-League Football Supporters Club

The non-league football supporters
Fighting over scraps
Of a little self importance.
"Yeah used to follow 'em,
Too much money in it now."
The cries that drift
And drizzle
The cry of twenty seven
Disenfranchised Aston Villa fans.
Here they're at home,
They flirt with the bar staff
And pretend they care about the score
In some pitiful, provincial meadow.
"The winger's very good you know
The winger's very good."
At full time
Knowing looks in the clubhouse
Betray all the signs
Bent scored two
You'd never know
Twenty seven people's secret pride.

Friday, 19 August 2011

Thursday, 18 August 2011

Untied Laces

Any requests? All will be considered, if not acted upon. In the meantime we've made something else It's got pretty pictures! And something else which has loads of words and no pictures. Enjoy!

Wednesday, 17 August 2011

Mariano Donda

In the Premier League
You'd be compared
With Charlie Adam
But there is so much more,
Sublime inconsistency!
And now you have moved
To be with Maradona
What a team you could make!
It is the loss of all Mendoza
For Godoy's lynchpin has left
Farewell but bring back the mullet.

Bjørge Lillelien - Unwitting Psychic (Norway 2 -1 England, Oslo 1981)

Birthplace of giants
Now shrunken and for sale
Believed a loss inconceivable.
The chevroned predator
Pouncing on McDermott
Poked without fanfare nor whimper.
For England played not as sportsmen
But countrymen
Fighting for a slow burning husk.
Maggie Thatcher, can you hear me?
Your boys took a hell of a beating
Your boys took a hell of a beating
Of course she did not listen.

Monday, 15 August 2011

The Ballad of Jeff Kenna

Sucking on a sour sweet
He never looks at ease,
The sun is always in his eyes,
That pass he never sees.
He's played alongside Shearer
At Rovers and Southampton too
And now he's moved to Florida
To start his life anew.

Saturday, 13 August 2011

Danny Simpson's Diagonal Ball

Danny Simpson's diagonal ball
It comes out twice a game
And when he reaches half time
He's told never again.

Friday, 12 August 2011

An English Keeper Forsees A Goal (With Apologies To W. B. Yeats)

I know that I shall meet my fate
Somewhere among the stands above;
Those that I fight I do not hate,
Those that I guard I do not love;
My country is St. George's cross
My countrymen St. George's poor,
This likely end will bring a loss
And leave them madder than before.
Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,
Nor manager, nor cheering crowds,
A lonely impulse of finance
Drove to this tumult on the pitch;
I balanced all, brought all to mind,
The goals to come seemed waste of breath,
A waste of breath the goals behind
In balance with this win, this loss.

Brazil 1 - 2 Norway 23/06/98

Tore André Flo,
Imbued with Odyssean cunning,
Deigned to put the world to rights
As they claimed "unbeatable".
Th'Athenian sigh expelled across
the Stade Vélodrome
Rais'd his toes two inches forth
And threw him cruelly to the floor.
Injustice! Outrage!
A penalty, surely not
But Baharmast, whistle to lips, cried foul
And brought two Titans toe to toe.
Taffarel, perpetually bald,
Had no chance, for lo!
Th'adversary o'the day
Was the be-mulleted hero, Rekdal!
The heaven-lit mane betrayed no nerve
He struck the ball clean and true,
Athene's arrow to guide its course
Net-bound it burned through th'air
And in the goal it settled there.
Rekdal (pen) 88'
For once Brésil, nil points.

Davide Biondini

Is he Scottish?
Flame haired -
Not the most flattering
Of body shapes, but!
The Cagliari shirt is so clingy,
He works hard at least.

An unsuccessful spell at Birmingham
Then back to the SPL
Seems more likely than
The catcalls came:
"Oi! Carrot top. You're shit"
But in Italian, obviously.
They were unfair
For he has two caps,
Two caps for Italy,
And two for the Azzurini.
They were unfair.

The Lacéd Boot: In The Beginning

The Lacéd Boot began with the realisation that Brad Friedel's head looks like a rock and it's crawled, dragging itself forward and ruined a few other things. I'm not sure what's ridiculous or ridiculed any more, the football or the poetry but some of you seem to enjoy it. Requests accepted on Twitter @TheLacedBoot and Email @ Thanks!

Brad Friedel

Brad Friedel's calcified face
The goalkeeping crag
Jutting skyward from the penalty area.

The rocky jaws creak apart,
A fissure exposed in the monolith.
A roar issues forth,
"Out! Out!"
The ball bounces clear.
No emotion betrayed in his eyes,
The caves that were his eyes.