A steel shipwreck marooned, stranded in time.
These colours run deep, that's why it hurts so.
The painful blow of a lego footstep.
Crashing your hip on the point of the bench.
An alleyway skip behind a dive bar,
The swirl of an unmistakeable stench.
Mud in the park on a miserable day.
Sneezing, no tissue? Hands covered in goo.
Leaving the beach after no waves to catch,
A seagull uses your head as a loo.
The first day at work after a long break.
Your favourite show gets cut from the air.
Paperwork dropped on your desk from the boss,
Your head goes limp in a show of despair.
A rough week ensues, the footy is on.
March on to the hill to cheer the boys home.
A listless display of inconsequence.
A beer can is launched, connects with your dome.
The punters get rowdy, the team, forlorn.
Players attempt to thank, to no reward.
Spit sprays the air, the crowd loudly lambasts.
A presser littered with token steps forward.
Crashing the collective head on the wall.
A tedium of aimless backline sweeps.
A last tackle hit-up, a kick gone dead,
The millionaire custodian weeps.
A lame duck head coach, scratching for answers.
A saviour inbound, from the cellar.
Thirteen million damn dollarydoos,
A decade, to avoid being dwellers.
Emergency board meetings, just for show.
Yeah yeah yeah? As the song goes, heads will roll.
Inaction breeds contempt, the din loudens,
Strained faces in the stands, each loss takes toll.
Local heroes desert, return, inflict.
Lauded with honours, success found offshore.
Messrs Young and King, hunters sent away,
While old dogs remain, a wizened dull core.
Young tyrants will farewell, lessons not learnt.
The belt will keep rolling, never to cease.
These plains will stay fertile, yet people starve.
Talent from home, cast away with the breeze.
Docks will stay singing with chatter and hope.
Whispering tales of fresh ambition.
The drums may dull but the beat never dies.
Promise reborn, of its own volition.
Yet the present is rainy, cold and grey.
But crowds remain, if hardly jovial.
For this is religion, a lifetime bond,
Attending your very own funeral.
So back to life’s trials, mundane or not.
Back to the trivial, the daily slop.
Go through the motions, fast forward to church,
For Mass is on Sunday, Knights are on top.
The patrons pour in, let’s do this again.
Amnesia from last week their greatest trait.
The bell tolls again, the battle resumes,
A hush descends; disciples can just wait.
One final sad three syllable war cry.
New-cas-tle, advance the blue and red wave.
This team may mirror a ship stuck ashore,
A return to the ocean all we crave.
**