OK, if you're still with this thread, you like poems, or just want to stave off what you should be doing.
This one's by a woman, who seems to know what football is all about.
Sssshhh poem ........ cert 18.
Your shirt
When the pitch is wet and muddy
And the playing’s rough and bloody,
Then the footballers come home with lots of laundry to be done,
And we women aren’t so keen –
We’ve got to get the kit all clean
And suddenly our fandom doesn’t seem a lot of fun.
But when it’s late in May
Or a warm September day
And the sweat is flowing freely, there’s a special kind of dirt,
And the teams all smell so manly –
Real Madrid to Accrington Stanley! –
And I find a new ambition: I want to be your shirt.
I’ll stretch myself across your back;
Get tipsy on your big six-pack;
Soak up your perspiration
For poetic inspiration;
It’ll end all my frustration
With a strong anticipation
That I’ll feel your muscles ripple
As I brush against your nipples –
The contraction of your pecs
Will be a substitute for sex!
And when at last you score (a goal),
My sleeves will grip your arms down hard
So you can’t wildly rip me off
And get another yellow card.
And when the match is over,
Friendly handshakes all around,
You’ll stop to swap me with another,
Before you leave the ground,
And I’ll adorn a different torso,
And I’ll fit him like a glove,
And I’ll hug him all the more so
‘Cause he’s someone new to love;
But your name’s written on my back
And though sometimes I flirt,
Babe – I’ve got your number,
And I want to be your shirt.
Brenda Read