Follicular Folly

It all began with John Utaka:
The setter of a trend,
He shaved the sides of his head
And spiked it up on top.
Now half the world has followed suit,
Neymar took it a little too far,
His peacocked mane the antithesis to, say,
Kyle Walker's graduated helmet.

But despite the changes and variations
Footballers all look the same
There's a certain breed of defender
Who is identified
By a kind of specific style
Which betrays an empty mind.
Arsenal have Koscielny, Chelsea John Terry,
Tottenham Michael Dawson, to name but three.
This kind of hair a compromise
To halt all kinds of pain,
For if too short you might be Richard Dunne,
Too long, Coloccini.
But the one hairstyle they all avoid
To a man, all but two,
That which grows on the heads of a famous duo -
The chuckle brothers of defending,
A Scottish tour de force,
Please god no, don't sign a Caldwell,
That's not what money's for.

Imagine challenging for a header
With big Kenwyne Jones -
Good in the air you say? No!
Just look at that hair!
Who wants to jump with that thing,
A mace of tangled knots,
Risk or tooth or being knocked out,
It's only Kenwyne Jones.

No these aren't the days of abominations,
No mullets or combovers,
But now it seems more than ever
Footballers all have terrible hair.
How does Drogba get away with that thing on his head?
There's no excuse for Raul Meireles,
Nor his hair...
But there is a small insurrection,
Outsiders, led by a few,
Leighton Baines' post-Best burns
And Parker's brylcreemed mop
They lead the way and show the rest
They don't have to give up.

Iago

"Demand me nothing: what you know, you know:
From this time forth I never will speak word."
I sprung hopeful from the guilded La Mascian shrine,
A Piedmontese holiday
A fine tour from the Adriatic to Castellón.
But here I sit my talents rotten
Bathing in the grim Solent
A career where nothing substantial did I provide
Where no one expects, no jewels in my crown.
Cast out from Iberia, the alps did not sustain,
So now this rotten isle my home!
O! Jerusalem!
My sword lay dormant, unclasped for too long
Today my final chance at gold.

Gaël Givet

Downtrodden he peers,
One brow always cocked higher than the other,
Like a minor character in
Madame Bovary.
But those Norman towns
Sun-swept in a ciderhaze
So far from Arles!
If he did not rise each morning
And to Brockhall go
He would surely be one of those
Perpetually anonymous caricatures -
The French peasant
Avec pitchfork, hay bailer, cap wearer,
Moleskin waistcoat too tight
Braces a-loosed.

Wand of a left foot

Like a scotch egg
Kicked half to death
Covered with a ketchup sash
It's Charlie Adam.

Dalglish Etheree

There
Was no
Need to come
Back to the league.
Special flickers like
The time you told Wenger
"It's a penalty, piss off."
But now you're the worst of them all
With your DVDs and your referees
Just leave it to Alex, it's been too long.

Sayonara Di Franceso (A Neopolitan Ghazal)*

To leave unrecognised, the stranger in the rain
His dreams unrealised, the stranger in the rain.

He stands humbled in the Parthenopean storm
Cheeks damp from tears he's cried, the stranger in the rain.

Those festive colours the yellow-red hold no cheer
A job by no one prized, that stranger in the rain.

He relied on loan signings, gifts from Udine
Short term he specialised, the stranger in the rain.

Looks back at Zeman let loose with his charge of old
By presidents chastised, the stranger in the rain.

He dreams of lacing up his boots again for Rome
Each loss he's penalised, the stranger in the rain.



*This poem is from the future, Eusebio Di Francesco has not been sacked (yet) and it has only proved that the ghazal form is of little use when it comes to satirical football poetry, who knew?

Championship Blues

There's only one last eagle
To grace this windy isle
And it lives in Lakeland
And never Selhurst Park.
And to my knowledge,
There has never been
A single wild lion
Stalking round these parts.

A clash of nature's finest
Beast and bird at one
How truly unfortunate
It occurs in Division One.