The State Of Play

The pitch war rages; It’s kick off time
The cloth cap Kings begin to sing
Weather worn faces chant in line
Cursing and urging the team to win

But behind closed doors
There’s so much more
Than there was before
A Brand
A Label
Transfer cash on the table
Agents and players
On maximum wages

It’s the state of play in the English game
‘The Beautiful Game’ of the proletariat
The Prawn Sandwich Brigade support the overpaid
While we’re being used to feed the fattest of cats

Billionaire ‘benefactors’
Outpaying all detractors
Gangster wheeler dealers
Totaletarian ex-leaders
Sweat shop merchandisers
Buying clubs then capitalising

The punters cough up the coffers
Ticket prices always rising? Not surprising
Cheap ‘this and that’ tat that up’s the profit
Multi millions in sponsors and advertising

Grand ground improvement schemes
Who’ll build the next Theatre of Dreams?
At the cost of those who have the least
The ones who turn up every other week

We pay for those in the directors box
Who throw money around like it’s out of date
A continual profit at the supporters cost
Those cloth cap Kings outside the gates

Until…

The pitch war rages; It’s kick off time
The cloth cap Kings begin to sing
Weather worn faces chant in line
Cursing and urging the team to win

This poem was written/submitted by spence.