Match Day*

Mothers, don’t let your babies
Grow up to be cowboys,*
Whatever incarnation that entails.
From guys riding rough-shod on ranges
To the Suits doing door-to-door sales.
Don’t let them grow up to be idle, either-
The kind with Opinions
That sit, drink and mither…
With political vows
They proudly espouse
With voices triumphant,
A little ebullient,
Made loud among peers
When fuelling with beers
As though holding all power,
A degenerate shower,
Regressing and slurred
As they spread the word
That Man Sport is king,
Even when they don’t win-
Though it’s not this that matters
Or so goes the patter-
It’s the songs and the revelry,
And shouting at the TV…
No signs of lassoes
Or spurs over shoes
Or fringed, studded waistcoats
Or cattle -or goats.
Just rich, discordant harmony
Like war games without livery.

The sense of camaraderie

The power of standing up to pee…

Not the slightest hint or suggestion

Of anything remotely equestrian.



In order of appearance…

* A subject arising from my time spent excavating our shared domestic space in advance of visitors while my partner went to the football…

* –WRT Waylon Jennings and for anyone who remembers the Kenny Everett (RIP) radio show on Capital Radio and elsewhere…


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s