One resorts to poetry when mere words strung together won’t suffice,
In matters of love and sorrow, broken hearts and departures from this life.
Like Country and Western, with dead dogs excluded, but without the silly hats,
and obviously no line-dancing to make them look like twats,

Outpourings of a devastated soul and shattered dreams sound better if they rhyme
Or football match victories ripped mercilessly away in the depths of extra time.
Its that feeling of ‘I’ll never get over this’, something deep with boundless sorrow,
Which won’t feel any better when you wake up on every tomorrow.

And so to yesterday, in the game at White Hart Lane,
When Brighton came a’striding, to play the beautiful game.
They were the ‘best team in the league’, measured on current form,
And strutted onto the pitch with winning as their norm.

And let’s be honest, Spurs have not been playing ‘very well’,
An understatement of such magnitude, it makes anxiety swell.
But heh!, there’s a new manager come to make it all better,
a funny little Italian wrapped up in a dark blue sweater.

He’s worked his magic elsewhere, ironically first at Brighton
Then at Marseilles where he was also pretty right on.
And this was his time, to raise the spirits, lift his sorry team above the gloom
Something we all know, cannot come a moment too soon.

With a future in ‘the Championship’ looking very beckoning,
Our little Roberto faced his true day of reckoning.
The last manager lasted for an entire 9 awful games
Would di Zerbi be added to that tragic list of names??

But he plays stylish football, attacking to a man
With flair and flow and excitement, the players ran and ran.
And scored a goal, a beautiful thing, headed by Pedro Porro
The fans were immediately elevated from all their previous sorrow.

But just before half time a tragedy didst occur
A volley from a Brighton player, so hard it was just a blur.
Yet onwards did Spurs play, for once not giving up
Playing their hearts out as if in the final of a cup

To be magnificently rewarded, late on in the game
By a goal of such exquisite quality, a masterpiece by any name.
The crowd went wild, the joy was just unbounded,
Starved as they were by a victory the cheering loudly sounded.

And then the tragedy occurred, in the late stages of extra time,
A defensive error, an horrendous mistake, by a player playing so fine,
I won’t say who this was, its sad, I just can’t apportion blame,
But if you’re interested, KEVIN DANSO, is his fucking name.

Brighton scored, the match was drawn, 2 points mercilessly stolen
The players hung their heads, their hearts were truly broken.
As they stripped off their shirts, down to their vests of Lycra,
Thinking of next year, swapping their Ferraris for a Nissan Micra.

But is us, the poor, poor fans, who really shoulder the suffering,
The anxst, the agony, the waiting, like watching a computer buffering
Because whatever happens next, its only us who remain
We have to stay positive, which is easy, if you’re insane.

Happy ‘woe is me’ Sunday

A xxxx