I seem to remember a few football related lyrics and ditties being posted on this site from time to time. Isn't there a p*mpey fan who's penned the odd worthwhile effort? Not sure. Anyway, recent events at St Marys have prompted me to come up with a little rhyme of my own, so i thought I'd post it up here and encourage others to do likewise. The Suffering Of The Saints Southampton Football Club has come undone, With scant hope for the season that's to come. After half a decade fed on dreams of glory, Now we're hearing quite a different story. It seems as if it has become the goal To sell the team off piece-meal, heart and soul. With aspirations wasted and hope lost, those who only value money weigh the cost. Whilst in the press we're getting torn to bits, Let's hope that's not repeated on the pitch. It's possible that we may yet rebuild, But it's far from certain if there is the will. Still, for now let's live in hope of better things, For these fears will be allayed with our next win.
Saints once had some arrogant t**ts Who thought they were better than that They f**ked off to the Mersey And slipped on the jersey And watched their careers falling flat. Well hopefully, anyway.
there was a young man from Darjeelin Who got on the bus to Ealing There was a sign on the door that said "don't spit on the floor" so he stood up and spat on the cealing
The sparrow dips in his wheel-rut bath, The sun grows passionate-eyed, And boils the dew to smoke by the paddock-path; As strenuously we stride, — Five of us; dark He, fair He, dark She, fair She, I, All beating by. The air is shaken, the high-road hot, Shadowless swoons the day, The greens are sobered and cattle at rest; but not We on our urgent way, — Four of us; fair She, dark She, fair He, I, are there, But one - elsewhere. Autumn moulds the hard fruit mellow, And forward still we press Through moors, briar-meshed plantations, clay-pits yellow, As in the spring hours - yes, Three of us; fair He, fair She, I, as heretofore, But - fallen one more. The leaf drops: earthworms draw it in At night-time noiselessly, The fingers of birch and beech are skeleton-thin And yet on the beat are we, — Two of us; fair She, I. But no more left to go The track we know. Icicles tag the church-aisle leads, The flag-rope gibbers hoarse, The home-bound foot-folk wrap their snow-flaked heads, Yet I still stalk the course — One of us..... Dark and fair He, dark and fair She, gone: The rest - anon.
There was a young man from Leeds Who swallowed a packet of seeds Great tufts of grass shot out of his arse And his balls were covered in weeds
Just to capture the mood around here at the moment!... Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone, Silence the pianos and with muffled drum Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come. Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead Scribbling on the sky the message 'The Saints are dead'. Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves, Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves. They are my North, my South, my East and West, My working week and my Sunday rest, My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; I thought that this would last forever: I was wrong. The stars are not wanted now; put out every one, Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun, Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood; For nothing now can ever come to any good.
My name is Cortese*, king of kings: Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair! * or whoever you wish to blame/rant about
"Nothing beside remains. Round the decay Of that collosal wreck, boundless and bare, The lone and level sands stretch far away" Great poem Saint Canon, and so true. Cortese's great edifice is just history now and will soon be forgotten as something greater comes along (we hope)
Today I saw a little worm, Wriggling on his belly, Perhaps he’d like to come inside, And see what’s on the telly.
TSS will like this one: I must down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky, And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by, And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking, And a grey mist on the sea's face, and a grey dawn breaking. I must down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied; And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying, And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying. I must down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life, To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted knife; And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.
You're right, I do. Masefield or Milton..?. Didn't go on a ramble to Warsash today because I thought this lot might kick off and need a bit of looking after. All things considered I wish I had. Don't get the opportunities these days to go sailing like I used to. Bloody miss it after reading that again, Chilco. Here's Spike Milligan's verson if I remember it aright: I must go down to the sea again, to the lonely sea and the sky; I left my shoes and socks there - I wonder if they're dry? Old Milligna [sic] is such a tonic.
I liked Spike's lament on Nelson's Column. It's due to pigeons that alight On Nelson's hat that make it white.
You cannot hope to bribe or twist (thank God!) the British journalist. But, seeing what the man will do unbribed, there's no occasion to. - Humbert Wolfe
