It wouldn't have been my first choice
Going to Chatham Town
But it's the price I pay
For seeing a mate when he's down.
Football's our anti-depressant
Where we go to chill
A greasy half-time burger
Acting as our happy pill.
'Enticed' by Erith and Belvedere
In their traditional quartered kit
I pretend I'd rather be elsewhere
But I'm still liking it.
A mix of old and new
Ancient stand hanging on
Harking back to better days
Lots of seas now gone.
Relegated last year
Back down to Step five
A handful of volunteers
Keeping them alive.
Spanking new floodlights
Officially opened in the week
Conceding twelve against Gillingham
The future must seem bleak.
There's this bubbly old boy
Don't think he knows how to frown
Turns out he's one of their officials
Losing today won't get him down.
Epitomising non league
Enthusiasm overflowing
A three one defeat today
He knows it'll be hard going.
didn't know him from Adam
But he stopped for a word
Even though we were strangers
Could've been a groundhopping nerd.
The football wasn't top notch
Plus it poured down with rain
But it was a down to earth friendly
No doubt we'll be back again.
Dulwich Poet 27th July 2017
(I wrote this after I'd been to Chatham Town v. Erith & Belvedere in a pre-season friendly on Saturday, with a mate of mine, who chose the game. Kent is commonly referred to as the 'Garden of England'.)
Thursday 27 July 2017
Wednesday 26 July 2017
"Football for a Fiver"
The billboards say "Twenty's Plenty"
Do they know the value of a score
For tonight at Holmesdale
It would have paid for four.
Sitting in the ramshackle stand
That would fail a health & safety test
I couldn't be more comfortable
That's why I love non-league best.
Before kick-off I speak to their chairman
Catching up chewing the fat
Sharing snippets of gossip
How can you argue with that.
The only thing that stinks
Is the wafting of manure
This might be South London suburbia
But there's horses in fields next door.
A few miles from what I'm used to
And three levels below
But beggars can't be choosers
Where else is there to go.
In truth I'm happy to be here
It's the way I chill
Pre-season v. a Bromley XI
Certainly fits the bill.
No pretence of a programme
Not a groundhopper in sight
Less than a hundred locals
Here for football tonight.
We're not here to tick a box
Or touch a corner flag
Not bothered there's no bit of paper
To place in our plastic bag.
Simply here foe the match
That's what makes me tick
If you want to laugh at me
Go on take the mick.
This might not be Dulwich Hamlet
But I'm easy to please
Contented here at Oakley Road
No "Twenty's Plenty" Premiership sleaze.
Dulwich Poet 26th July 2017
(I wrote this sat in the stand at a pre-season friendly between Holmesdale & Bromley)
Do they know the value of a score
For tonight at Holmesdale
It would have paid for four.
Sitting in the ramshackle stand
That would fail a health & safety test
I couldn't be more comfortable
That's why I love non-league best.
Before kick-off I speak to their chairman
Catching up chewing the fat
Sharing snippets of gossip
How can you argue with that.
The only thing that stinks
Is the wafting of manure
This might be South London suburbia
But there's horses in fields next door.
A few miles from what I'm used to
And three levels below
But beggars can't be choosers
Where else is there to go.
In truth I'm happy to be here
It's the way I chill
Pre-season v. a Bromley XI
Certainly fits the bill.
No pretence of a programme
Not a groundhopper in sight
Less than a hundred locals
Here for football tonight.
We're not here to tick a box
Or touch a corner flag
Not bothered there's no bit of paper
To place in our plastic bag.
Simply here foe the match
That's what makes me tick
If you want to laugh at me
Go on take the mick.
This might not be Dulwich Hamlet
But I'm easy to please
Contented here at Oakley Road
No "Twenty's Plenty" Premiership sleaze.
Dulwich Poet 26th July 2017
(I wrote this sat in the stand at a pre-season friendly between Holmesdale & Bromley)
"Martin"
I know I'll never be like
Nor want to end up like you
You may think you're 'Mr. Dulwich'
But have the respect of few.
Only caring about number one
Rather than the Club
You're actually the sort of bloke
No-one would buy a drink in a pub.
I'm not denying you did your bit
But it was YOU that came first
Anyone who comes after you
They must do their worst.
Constant sniping and moaning
It wears everyone else down
When you should be treated with dignity
You're laughed at like a clown.
No idea of decorum
Which is why you lack respect
Even though you're three score and ten
I can't believe you've not been decked.
Now your photo's been smashed
As you sully our Boardroom wall
I genuinely resent the fact
You come to games at all.
I can't really hate you
You're not even worth that
To be honest I pity you
When in the corner you're sat.
Slagging off your replacement
Before his foot's even in the door
Sadly it's what I'd expect from you
Attitude so poor.
Out of touch with reality
Your cronies have had their day
If only you'd do the decent thing
And simply stay away.
So desperate to be important
Now so out of touch
Skin so thick you won't grasp
Why hardly anyone likes you much.
Now you live in the West Country
Go find somewhere local
That's if you can pull the wool over
Some stupid sheep-shagging local.
You've always had your own agenda
Looking after your good self
Oh how much I like it
That you're not in perfect health!
Even though we're stuck with you
And you'll be a around for quite a while
I'm comforted that when you die
You'll finally make me smile.
Dulwich Poet 26th July 2017
(This one is NOT one I'm going to publish on Facebook, as the person it's about is a FB friend with me, just not worth the hassle! )
Nor want to end up like you
You may think you're 'Mr. Dulwich'
But have the respect of few.
Only caring about number one
Rather than the Club
You're actually the sort of bloke
No-one would buy a drink in a pub.
I'm not denying you did your bit
But it was YOU that came first
Anyone who comes after you
They must do their worst.
Constant sniping and moaning
It wears everyone else down
When you should be treated with dignity
You're laughed at like a clown.
No idea of decorum
Which is why you lack respect
Even though you're three score and ten
I can't believe you've not been decked.
Now your photo's been smashed
As you sully our Boardroom wall
I genuinely resent the fact
You come to games at all.
I can't really hate you
You're not even worth that
To be honest I pity you
When in the corner you're sat.
Slagging off your replacement
Before his foot's even in the door
Sadly it's what I'd expect from you
Attitude so poor.
Out of touch with reality
Your cronies have had their day
If only you'd do the decent thing
And simply stay away.
So desperate to be important
Now so out of touch
Skin so thick you won't grasp
Why hardly anyone likes you much.
Now you live in the West Country
Go find somewhere local
That's if you can pull the wool over
Some stupid sheep-shagging local.
You've always had your own agenda
Looking after your good self
Oh how much I like it
That you're not in perfect health!
Even though we're stuck with you
And you'll be a around for quite a while
I'm comforted that when you die
You'll finally make me smile.
Dulwich Poet 26th July 2017
(This one is NOT one I'm going to publish on Facebook, as the person it's about is a FB friend with me, just not worth the hassle! )
Saturday 22 July 2017
"Death With Dignity"
I don't know you little boy
But the world loves Charlie Gard
Take away the emotion
The decision's not really hard.
Sometimes you got to be 'cruel'
Cruel to be kind
Isn't it best to end it naturally
Surely I'm not out of my mind?
I don't care what they say
He's barely human in a shell
Never mind letting him die
You condemn him to living hell.
I'm not an evil monster
It's just the right thing to do
Let hin go quickly
Not parade him like in a zoo.
The Pope sticks his oar in
As if Great Ormond Street's a third world quack
Like he can offer something in Rome
That the best in world clearly lack.
Rather than interfering
Why does his God let this happen at all
What dodgy deity is it
That allows suffering in one so small?
All this dragged on pain
Wants to make me cry
For the little mite Charlie Gard
Who should be left in peace to die.
Dulwich Poet 22nd July 2017
(This is in response to the sad on-going court battle between Great Ormond Street Hospital & the parents of severely ill and soon to die young baby Charlie Gard)
But the world loves Charlie Gard
Take away the emotion
The decision's not really hard.
Sometimes you got to be 'cruel'
Cruel to be kind
Isn't it best to end it naturally
Surely I'm not out of my mind?
I don't care what they say
He's barely human in a shell
Never mind letting him die
You condemn him to living hell.
I'm not an evil monster
It's just the right thing to do
Let hin go quickly
Not parade him like in a zoo.
The Pope sticks his oar in
As if Great Ormond Street's a third world quack
Like he can offer something in Rome
That the best in world clearly lack.
Rather than interfering
Why does his God let this happen at all
What dodgy deity is it
That allows suffering in one so small?
All this dragged on pain
Wants to make me cry
For the little mite Charlie Gard
Who should be left in peace to die.
Dulwich Poet 22nd July 2017
(This is in response to the sad on-going court battle between Great Ormond Street Hospital & the parents of severely ill and soon to die young baby Charlie Gard)
"Poetry"
What is this thing called 'poetry'
That we all know and love
It's just one fucking word after another
When a push comes to a shove.
Poetry's such a scary word
You say "it's not for me"
Pick up a pen and paper
You'll be surprised at what you see.
A tale develops on the page
Emerging from inside your head
Go on...just for yourself
It doesn't have to be shared or read.
And even though it's my style
It doesn't have to rhyme
Jumble it up at random
You'll be doing fine.
Poetry's what I do for fun
Poetry keeps me sane
Though straining for the right word
Can be a bit of a pain!
It's surrounded by snobbery
Not something that's working class
Go pick up a cheap biro
And that misconception will pass.
Anyone can write
There's nothing to fear
Sit in the corner of a pub
And try it nursing a beer.
You might get an odd strange look
As if you're a nutter on a bus
The reality of it is
No-one will make a fuss.
So if you gone and read this
Put pen to paper and write
Let's have working class bards all over Facebook
What a fucking sight!
Dulwich Poet 22nd July 2017
(I enjoy sharing some of my poems on Facebook, I'd love more of my mates to do so)
That we all know and love
It's just one fucking word after another
When a push comes to a shove.
Poetry's such a scary word
You say "it's not for me"
Pick up a pen and paper
You'll be surprised at what you see.
A tale develops on the page
Emerging from inside your head
Go on...just for yourself
It doesn't have to be shared or read.
And even though it's my style
It doesn't have to rhyme
Jumble it up at random
You'll be doing fine.
Poetry's what I do for fun
Poetry keeps me sane
Though straining for the right word
Can be a bit of a pain!
It's surrounded by snobbery
Not something that's working class
Go pick up a cheap biro
And that misconception will pass.
Anyone can write
There's nothing to fear
Sit in the corner of a pub
And try it nursing a beer.
You might get an odd strange look
As if you're a nutter on a bus
The reality of it is
No-one will make a fuss.
So if you gone and read this
Put pen to paper and write
Let's have working class bards all over Facebook
What a fucking sight!
Dulwich Poet 22nd July 2017
(I enjoy sharing some of my poems on Facebook, I'd love more of my mates to do so)
Saturday 8 July 2017
"Bumping Them Off"
Passing Freemasons Hall
Pubs full of dickie bows all posh
I really want to run amok
If only I had a cosh.
What we need is an ethical suicide bomber
Explosives round the waist
But one that only kills the rich
And secretive Masons without haste.
Can you imagine the fun we'd have
If we could pick and choose
Bumping off those we despise
With nothing at all to lose.
I don't want to play 'God'
Religious nutters would be on my list
Not to mention a thousand and one people
Who drive me round the twist.
Bus drivers who ignore bus stops
And cyclists who jump lights
People who talk bollocks at football
Ruining my midweek nights.
By that I mean certain new-veau's
Who know nothing about the game
The ones who fuck things up
But never take the blame.
Bar staff in boozers
Who drown my drinks with ice
Even if they plead for mercy
I wouldn't think twice.
Poets who say they like my poetry
Then tell me where I go wrong
Plus those who go to Spoken Word
Then break into song.
Shoppers in a supermarket
Who take hours to pack their bag
Everyone who voted for Thatcher
The evil of evilest Tory hag.
All those who cheer at Venereal Fields
When t*****g and mitcham score
And while I'm including football
I'd chuck in the Lev'red scum for sure.
People who like to help out
Repeatedly tell you when they fix a plug
But when they make a hash of something proper
It's the fault of every other mug.
Cyclists who drag their contraptions
Onto a packed commuter train
Taking up the space of three others
Driving me insane.
Do you remember the Neutron Bomb
Bumping off people as buildings stand
Can you imagine if I had a class war version
Right here in my hand.
Bye, bye Oxbridge toffs
Who taunt homeless by burning a score
Racist EDL and UKIP tossers
You'd simply be no more.
Our high streets would be safer
The end of street preachers serenading hate
Anyone who offends me
You'd soon know your fucking fate.
I could go on for hours
But I think you get my drift
I'm the only one on this planet
To handle this killing gift!
Dulwich Poet 8th July 2017
(This poem came out of nothing. I walking through the West end, and saw untold posh people, dressed up to the nines, going into an evening function at the Freemasons Hall...)
Pubs full of dickie bows all posh
I really want to run amok
If only I had a cosh.
What we need is an ethical suicide bomber
Explosives round the waist
But one that only kills the rich
And secretive Masons without haste.
Can you imagine the fun we'd have
If we could pick and choose
Bumping off those we despise
With nothing at all to lose.
I don't want to play 'God'
Religious nutters would be on my list
Not to mention a thousand and one people
Who drive me round the twist.
Bus drivers who ignore bus stops
And cyclists who jump lights
People who talk bollocks at football
Ruining my midweek nights.
By that I mean certain new-veau's
Who know nothing about the game
The ones who fuck things up
But never take the blame.
Bar staff in boozers
Who drown my drinks with ice
Even if they plead for mercy
I wouldn't think twice.
Poets who say they like my poetry
Then tell me where I go wrong
Plus those who go to Spoken Word
Then break into song.
Shoppers in a supermarket
Who take hours to pack their bag
Everyone who voted for Thatcher
The evil of evilest Tory hag.
All those who cheer at Venereal Fields
When t*****g and mitcham score
And while I'm including football
I'd chuck in the Lev'red scum for sure.
People who like to help out
Repeatedly tell you when they fix a plug
But when they make a hash of something proper
It's the fault of every other mug.
Cyclists who drag their contraptions
Onto a packed commuter train
Taking up the space of three others
Driving me insane.
Do you remember the Neutron Bomb
Bumping off people as buildings stand
Can you imagine if I had a class war version
Right here in my hand.
Bye, bye Oxbridge toffs
Who taunt homeless by burning a score
Racist EDL and UKIP tossers
You'd simply be no more.
Our high streets would be safer
The end of street preachers serenading hate
Anyone who offends me
You'd soon know your fucking fate.
I could go on for hours
But I think you get my drift
I'm the only one on this planet
To handle this killing gift!
Dulwich Poet 8th July 2017
(This poem came out of nothing. I walking through the West end, and saw untold posh people, dressed up to the nines, going into an evening function at the Freemasons Hall...)
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