Feet Apart, Knuckles Stretched

 

Feet Apart, Knuckles Stretched

 

Johnny, bent, adopted that curious pose.

Squatting like he was touching cloth,

hands clenched around an imaginary stick,

just before he was about to kick

for goal, lips pursing, crowds cursing

every time he missed. Still, as for all that

at least he knew a good time to quit.

I’m told you had pace, an eye for goal,

now you’re out for an afternoon stroll

in the park. Deepest sympathy to the coach,

whoever he is, they come and go quick,

and the trick is to know who to pick,

which name is first on the team sheet,

and if you’re hooked, it’s gardening leave

until he's game-ended. Call that a team?

Bit-part players, yes-men, hopefully fall

in the box, you step up, feet apart, crawl

knuckles stretched, bloody miss again,

three or four paces, maybe one in ten;

nothing to scream about, then again,

that might be on the generous side.

Still, only room for one poseur on stage,

this theatre of dreams, you petulant twat,

career spent winking and promoting tat,

should’ve been scruff of the necked,

given a sharp punt up the backside,

a six spiked tattoo, left back and cried.

Take an early bath to expunge raked mud,

every time you should've been subbed,

those professionals that you snubbed,

and the bad smell you left behind in clubs.