A poem: The beautiful game a far cry from locality

by bernt & torsten

Football, oh bloody game of yore,
Once revered, from coast to shore.
Of every hamlet, village, town,
Now just puppets in a billionaire's crown.

TV deals inked in diamond dust,
Lost innocence, broken trust.
For the old school fan, a horrid sight,
Their local club, bathed in neon light.

Crouched on couches, we watch and stare,
As millionaires sprint everywhere.
Donning jerseys in place of suits,
On manicured lawns, planting boots.

Where is the connect, where lies the heart?
In this glitzy gala, the common fan is set apart.
They dribble and score, yes, they’re quite skilled,
But their drives, off hometown lore, are not fulfilled.

Bereft of local ties, in foreign lands they roam,
Every stadium a castle, yet none a home.
Chasing balls and lofty dreams,
Sellout matches, deafening screams.

A quaint old game, stripped of its charm,
No more the farmer's son, showing off his arm.
Now we're left with gilded kits and shining cars,
Football, alas, has become a gala of stars.

Once upon a time, a simple pleasure,
Now a commodity, richly measured.
The pitch is green, the spirits, not so much,
Football, oh football, we miss your simple touch.

Continue exploring:  https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0DC6RM5NZ