Best Footy Poems
There’s nothing like a sat’dy when the dews still on the ground,
and I can take me young bloke where they kick a ball around.
To see the highs and lows of me kid who does his best,
and barrack till I’m hoarse by encouraging the rest.
When we’re winning I’m a grinner and a happy chap at least,
but when fortune doesn't smile there’s the hinting of a beast,
and on this day we’re losing but me young bloke’s playing well,
so I made a move to tell him when they rang the half time bell.
I wondered why the coach had beckoned him, over to his side,
where he’s giving him a lecture and me young bloke nearly cried.
He’s played a ripper game, considering the situation.
I stood behind the coach and heard the tail end of his conversation.
He mentioned that with footy it’s the spirit of the contest.
It’s important not to swear at others when they do their best.
When an umpire makes decisions that you might see as wrong
you must not throw a tantrum or keep slandering on and on.
“Do you understand what I’ve just said”, the coach said to me son.
“This club has got a reputation and this is not the way it’s done”.
I was just about to step in when the coach said “Now me lad,
I want you to take what I just said and explain it to your dad”.
My body tenses.
The soft padding of footy pajamas
approach
tiny fingers grip my eyelid
lift it....
Bright eyes gaze into
the freshly opened eye.
A voice shouts....DA!!!
The other eye opens.
Yes I'm in here.
......And he knows it.
His PJ's had that
"potato in a pocket" hang.
I close my eyes...
reopen them...
he's still there...
he shouts again....DA!
Milk dribbles from his chin
as he struggles
to master the spoon
Cheerios dot his forehead
as he throttles a banana.
The "eye" sips coffee
tries not to laugh.
The dog laps up
his portion of sharing.
It was a good morning.. until
he pried my eye open
then....it became
.......A GREAT MORNING
John G. Lawless
2/15/2021
I learnt a lesson well today on how good hygiene works,
and how sometimes it doesn’t pay, to gain professional perks.
It was Mick the barber’s little lurk that put up this dreadful case …
I’ll never trust another soul when shaving whiskers off me face.
The local footy club had organized a social ‘do’,
on this Friday night that I had bought some tickets too,
where me wife and I will manage, to get half full and skite,
but I had to get a haircut to look half decent for the night.
So I knocked off picking apples at around a half past four,
and drove off to Mick the barber where I sat and waited for,
my turn to sit down in his chair and that could be a while,
as there are two ahead of me, and the first has little style.
His hair was long and rank and by his whiskers it appeared,
he hadn’t shaved for quite a while, so had a stubble beard.
Mick clipped his scissors through the hair; saying as it gently fell,
“Once I’ve finished with your hair would you like a shave as well?”
This fella gave his face a gentle rub and then he quietly speaks,
“My razor can’t get close enough and leaves a shadow on me cheeks,
Would I be wasting all me money here?” Mick gave a cheeky grin,
“No, not at all, for I’ll fix that” then reached inside a bin.
Mick picked up this wooden ball and fingers rolled it with his thumb,
“Just place this in your mouth between your left cheek and your gum,
I’ll pass the razor ‘round the contours and when yer feel yer cheek,
yer won’t even feel the stubble if yer don’t shave fer a week”.
I watched Mick do his business and by gee you know he’s right,
the skin is looking more like silk and not a shadow is in sight,
then I saw a frown come on the face of the fella in the chair,
and in a garbled voice he sort of spoke with some despair.
“This bloody ball keeps rolling ‘round, and I can’t follow it,
what happen’s Mick if just by chance that I swallow it?”
Mick wiped his razor on a towel, then filled the bloke with ‘horrer’,
“Just do what all the others do - and bring it back tomorrer!”
In little towns the big events are locally presented,
and every family in the town is usually represented.
Shopkeepers shut their doors when a pioneer curls his toes,
and if someone’s up to mischief, then everybody knows.
Every sporting club is well supported, right down to the wire,
they are the social hubs of towns to set the youth on fire,
through footy clubs and netball clubs combining into one
to sing and dance the night away, promoting local fun.
Of course when youth is mixed with party love can fill the air,
so Cupid’s firing arrows through the hearts of those who care.
This sometimes leads to earnestness when love gets in the way;
the town is now preparing for there’ll be a wedding day.
There’s heaps of preparation from the family of the bride;
flower girls and pretty maids to stand right by her side.
There’s the minister and invitations; the caterers are right.
All the groom must think about - “Are you coming to the bucks night?”
It’s half past five and dawn is breaking; we’re coming back to town.
God knows who is driving but their foot is going down.
There’s nugget, sauce and butter, smeared over everything;
the bucks party is over now - it’s ten hours ‘til the wedding.
And now coming up behind us is a mass of flashing light,
when a siren started blaring; we thought it better to take flight.
We shot around some back streets trying to lose this cop,
then someone with a drunken slur, said “I think we better stop.”
Popularity is not the word that I would say is spoken next.
This angry cop took any plea completely out of context.
He wouldn’t listen to a word that’s said, repeating “That’s enough!”
before I heard the second click of a closing set of handcuffs.”
In a cell back at the station there’s a pall of doom and gloom.
And there’s a hint of panic when it’s mentioned in the room,
by the cop who indicated strongly that by giving him some flack,
we’re gunna stay locked up until his Sergeant arrives back.
I made every kind of plea I could, but this cop avoids my dreading.
He said “Young lad you’re lucky; my Sergeants at his daughters wedding,
so he’ll be in a good mood when he greets you in this room.”
“Don’t bloody count on it” I said - “Because I’m the flamin’ groom!”
I was a city born and city bred young fellow,
whose shoes had mostly only touched concrete and tar.
Oh yes I had seen grass, but out on a footy ground
and my entertainment was drinking at a nightclub bar.
As a city bred young bloke I had never seen the stars
for blanket smog and neon lights had blocked them out.
I never knew what clean air was, nor really cared at all,
and rain was just a nuisance that I could do without.
I had no idea where food comes from - why should I?
I just hand across ten dollars, and bingo! In my hand,
is warm and crispy chicken with leaves I throw away,
and chocolate milk comes in a carton with a brand.
But I’m informed one morning, this is not the case.
Milk, like cheese and butter, and yoghurt too somehow,
comes to the city from the country, for us city folk.
And I didn’t quite believe - from the inside of a cow.
A cow! I’ve never seen a cow. What’s a cow look like?
That’s right! I admit I’d not seen a cow in all me life.
I barely knew the difference, between a cow and a pig,
until in a nightclub - that’s where I met me future wife.
Jean is a lovely girl; so pretty, and near rural to the core.
She knows every breed of cow that is written in the book.
Jean has milked them, immunised, dehorned them in a crush,
so she’s quite strong in the arm and can land a great left hook.
I’m talking of me own experience; me jaw is still quite sore.
The lesson that I learnt is to choose words more carefully.
I’m not sure if the listeners sed at what I had said,
or were pleased to see an enraged woman acting like a bully.
Since we had married in the city, and lived in a city flat,
me darling Jean for many months suggested time and time again,
we should go back to her hometown where Jean promised me,
that I will finally see a cow and Jean won’t have to explain.
Now I’ve seen Friesians, Jerseys, Guernsey’s, Ayrshire’s;
I’ve eyed Poddy Calves, yearling Heifers, Bulls and Steers.
I’ve become an expert on cows, and just what is required.
I know everything that’s needed about cows so it appears.
But when lecturing colleagues with Jean close by me side,
it became the catalytic weapon to cause a murderous scene,
for I proudly uttered loudly without consequential fears,
that I had never seen a cow until - I met my wife Jean.
Ted Cogger is our local butcher and he’s been here seven years;
full forward for the footy team and drinks a nightly seven beers.
He played one season for the cricket club, but he was just a slugger,
and Ted’s become a mate of mine, but he’s a pretty sleazy bugger.
I have suspicions ‘bout fidelity but of course there is no proof,
and if Pat his wife did get the bell she’d probably hit the roof!
All in all Ted’s just a bloke who loves his beer and sport,
but if other rumours are all true then one day he’ll get caught.
And caught he got, in front of me; there in his butchers shop.
I was wandering home near five o’clock, so I thought I would stop
and have a chat with Ted before he shuts up for the night,
when in walks Mrs. Grundy much to Ted’s chagrin delight.
I sat back and listened to their conversation taking place.
Mrs. Grundy mentioned she hoped Ted would be her saving grace,
but being Friday Ted’s not sure, for he’s let his stocks run low,
therefore his freezers full of empty space with nothing much to show.
She ordered sausages and corn beef, but Ted just shook his head,
so Mrs. Grundy scratched beneath her chin, then she finally said,
“Would you have a chicken I could buy” and one Ted duly found,
then plonked it down upon the scales and weighed it as three pound.
“Oh goodness me that’s not enough” Mrs. Grundy made another plea,
“My son is coming for the weekend and that won’t feed his family,
would you have a bigger chicken?” Ted went back for another look.
I saw him bring back from the cool room - the very same old chook.
He plonked it down upon the scales but Mrs. Grundy couldn’t tell,
even though the chook is on the scales - Ted’s finger is as well.
Ted mentioned that the weight’s four pound, thinking this would do …
“That’s marvellous” said Mrs. Grundy - “Now can you wrap up the two?”
ODE TO THE AFL!!! (Melbourne, Australia, a unique whimsy)
Are footy fanatics,
Total raving lunatics?
The flag's in the bag!
We've got some lively lads,
Best we've ever had!
Peter Pans on pot,
The flags that time forgot,
Footy finals fever,
Talk about dream weavers!
Footy finals phobias,
TV claustrophobia,
Why didn't we win?
Any old excuse again!
Footy fanatics,
Raving lunatics,
Footy finals fever,
Melbourne's dream weavers!
(And we wouldn't have it any other way!!)
By Robert (Bob) Moore (©2015)
The gun shearer has gone now, like many other things
the shearing sheds are empty, and wools no longer king
gone now like the drover, and the brumbie on the plains
but we still have the scorched brown earth, and droughts and soaking rains
The aussie language has almost gone , the things we used to say
fair dinkum sport, and ridgie didge, and hello was “G’day”
no “its your shout” “snakes in your pocket” “he’s a bonza bloke”
“Bloody oath” and “Dinky Di” and “can’t you take a joke”
no footy shorts and tshirt, an Akubra hat was neat
now its baseball caps and hoodies, and Nikies on your feet
you don’t drive a Holden car, you drive a Nissan tank
the aussie way of life is gone, you can take that to the bank
once you could walk along the street, anytime without a care
bread and milk delivered to your door, the money you’d leave there
upon the step, with empty bottles, people just walked bye
no way that you could not do that now, and you wouldn’t even try
no bangers on the barbie, with a great big piece of steak
Hoges even calls a prawn a shrimp, the Americans to placate
used to say “a barbie out the back”, but now its “al fresco”
with emu, ostrich, and crocodile, and some you may not want to know
now everything is different, but did it all go wrong
can we say that it’s just progress, and we are where we belong
multicultural, many Nations, trying to live as one
no manufacturing anymore, all of that has gone
Is it still a Western Culture here, an Anglo-celtic race
or has it changed, to something else, at a slow, unnoticed pace
there’s Catholics, Buddhists. Muslims, there’s Anglicans and Jews
in every tier of government, and controlling all the news.
So we only know what we are told, and pretend that we don’t see
what’s happening to this Country, ‘cause that’s just not PC
so soon the Lucky Country, may not be lucky anymore
and we’ll find the life which we once knew, has walked right out the door
LEAVING BOYHOOD BEHIND
White shirt 'n' school tie to blue-collar, dress-code is changing with age
From schooldays to pay-days, from homework to hard work
School bells and game playing to work's whistle and wage earning
With new mates, dirty jokes and smoking, oh where has my boyhood gone?
Seven-thirty start time to five-thirty finish, playtime is shortening with age
From footy-boots to work-boots, from school cap to flat-cap
Five hour days and school clock to nine hour days and time-clock
With clocking on, punch cards and overtime, oh where has my boyhood gone?
Sitting with the lads and a big mug of tea, some things taste different with age
From cream soda to warm beer, from tu'penny mix to filter-tips
Learning piecework rates and new skills, paying union subs and betting slips
***-packet backs, sledge-hammers and betting, oh where has my boyhood gone?
Working with Paddy in the oven's fiery heat, this is much too hot at any age
From cold iron bar to white hot, from straight angle-bar to boiler-flange
From the furnace to the big rolls and bend it, working fast before
Lift it out, knock it flat and weld it, oh where has my boyhood gone
In the Boiler-shop to learn fabrication, things mustn't drop apart with age
From marking out to Oxy-gas cutting from riveting to electric arc welding
Not much in the way of protection with no heath 'n' safety laws here
With air-hammers, no ear-plugs or goggles, oh where has my hearing gone?
Moving big metal sheets down the plate-shop, I must be getting stronger with age
From plate stack to marking out table from load stable to not very safe
Two tons of metal on the pulley, the chain slips and it's down with a bang
Metal crashing, men jumping and cursing, oh where has my life nearly gone
Day-release Thursday at college, lessons still needed with age
From going to Derby and back again, from going by bus to car driving
The Lacarno dance-hall at lunch-time, try chatting up girls for some fun
A quick jive, some posing and a coffee, oh where has my boyhood gone
Dating girls at the week-end and hoping, urges get stronger with age
From meeting up early to dancing, from front seat to back seat for fun
Babysitting her niece on a Tuesdays this gives us some time on our own
Snogging, heavy petting and much further... boyhood gone
I don’t get it. They confuse me. The psych of a woman.
Her needs, her wants, her desire.
One day she’s happy, content and in bliss.
Then the next, she’s a blazing wild fire.
My questions: Chocolate or ice cream? What’s her likes in food?
And what does she want in a date?
But then, just as importantly, what does she dislike,
What does she actually hate?
I bet she hates unemotional men,
Men that think love’s a violent war movie.
I bet she hates the guys that love footy,
That think horse racing is natural beauty.
At the bar does she like her vodkas for shots,
Then at home her coffee or tea?
Does she like not being judged on her choices in books?
Does she want a man whose a bit more carefree?
I guess, in a man, she wants ambition.
She wants optimistic, funny and smart.
She probably wants a conversational guy,
That’s well groomed with a passionate heart.
Does she want a man whose sharing and caring,
Who understands how to hug, kiss and hold?
At the end of the day, I think she wants a beautiful relationship,
With a ring that’s made out of gold.
In days of yore when I was four, in my memory I'm sure
there was nothing that you could buy called low fat
you got meat from a cow, and pork from a sow,
pound of lamb from NZ and that was that.
Butter from a pack, there was nothing that it lacked,
spread it thickly and then top it off with jam
or on it's own when times were hard,
and cook your chips in a pound of lard
and deep fry lots of lovely fritters made of Spam.
On the high days and the holy finish off with roly poly
burn it off by playing footy in the yard,
as we kids all stuffed our faces the majority of cases
found that doing up our laces wasn't hard.
So I think it rather strange how the times they've slowly changed
in our best interests to make us really thin
that the products we are buying really must be surely lying
as so many are now bursting out their skins.
In the papers every morning there's a scientific warning
of the problems that we store up for ourselves
as we go off on a jolly with our supermarket trolley
desperately trying to empty all the shelves.
As I sit and watch the fuss as they struggle on the bus
using scooters sticks and frames to get along
all I'm seeing is human beings and before my thoughts start fleeing
in my head they ask 'where did it all go wrong'?
My eyes groaned , morning arrived, I realized,
Then a moment of dire shook my entire stiff body.
Did that night really happen? Did that happen to me?
Was that a “gift” from my uncle Toddy?
I was high, couldn’t move, when he raised my back up and then
… oh no, I had to go spew.
I couldn’t think, couldn’t feel, my body was numb,
No one knew what I knew what I went through?
Then, it never happened, not to me, I was in control,
I was only crying from watching movie features.
I had to get busy, that was it, at fifteen, study at school,
I’d concentrate on each of my teachers.
Since then I can’t play footy, sleeping’s a memory,
I don’t talk to family about sexual assault.
I hate being in crowds, don’t touch me, I don’t go out,
And, yes, this is all my own stupid fault.
Now my beautifully effective tool dealing with nightmares
Is to drink and smoke and inject.
I think I’m coping alone in my head really well,
But my wife says I’m emotionally wrecked.
The pies are hot
The beer is cold
It must be Saturday afternoon.
Tomato sauce
Spills down my front
Both teams to show up soon.
The pom pom girls
The footy teams
In uniforms the same
Anticipation
Electrification
The ref's whistle starts the game.
Whether rugby or soccer
Or American footy
The ball is taken up hard
1st tackle made
Blood is sprayed
Tough men now play their cards
Among the sweat
Among the bets
A smile on every boys face
In wonderland
In fairyland
Wish they could trade their place
Exchanging fists
Not to be missed
The crowd now boos then cheers
Enjoying that they
Can have a say
Without retribution or fear.
It's full time now
Don't know how
The fun is over so soon
The pies are still hot
The beer is still cold
It must be Saturday afternoon.
I love you, you’re hot, you do it for me,
You’re perfect on the inside,
All warm and soft and deliciously round,
Your belt has sort of been pied,
And you come to the footy, and also the pub,
You warm me when I am in town,
You warm me in the cold winter months,
You’re a beautiful tanned sort of brown,
And I love sploshing you with all sorts of sauces,
Covering your top in a red,
You’re better than any McDonalds Big Mac,
I think you’re better than bread,
You’re my beautiful steak to beef to chicken,
You can even be filled with lambs fry,
You’re my beautiful hand held wonderful food,
You’re my beautiful crispy meat pie.
Yes, it's male Sundayitis,
AKA masculine vaginitis,
So, it's footy Sunday again,
Your great god Baal of sin,
Ever tried to lighten up?
A smile on your dial of life's cup,
No, wake up and get negative!
Lucky for you I'm so positive,
Men, kill yourselves on the front grass,
I've mopped the floors, that'll last,
Always keep on smiling, I say,
For once, you can have delightful day.