In the absence of a grown up...
Posted by Pup·
O soft-eyed Muse of Goodison’s fair ground,
Look down upon the Mersey’s turbid tide,
Where once bright laurels and sweet grace were found,
Now only phantom bank-notes bloom and die.
A heavy bluster fills the transfer hour,
When shadowy peddlers bring their silver wares—
Unwanted youths, and elders worn and grey,
Whose faded talents wither like the flower
When autumn turns to winter unawares,
And leaves the Faithful weeping in dismay.
Where is the coin of Moshiri’s bold dream?
Dissolved like mist upon the northern air!
While rival ships sail down the royal stream
With shiny treasure, fleet and wondrous fair.
We chase the phantom striker through the night,
Offer fair fortunes for a fleeting name,
Yet midnight strikes—the deadline bell doth knell!
No ink is spilt, no jersey rendered bright,
Save one lone winger, crippled, old, and lame,
To walk the hollow turf of Evertonia’s hell.
O wretched deadline! Melancholy hour!
When frantic brokers scramble for a loan,
And rich promises curdle into sour,
While weary fans let out a collective groan.
Fair Everton, wrapped in a shroud of debt,
Sits by the dockyard, waiting for the spring,
Yet reaps but chaff where golden grain was sown;
Her ledger bleeds, her soul is heavy yet,
For all the riches that the autumn brings
Are broken hopes and panics of our own.
Courtesy of co-puplet
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