Rythm

They dunno how it is. I smack a ball

right through the goals. But they dunno how the words

get muddled in my head, get tired somehow.

I look through the window, see. And there’s a wall

I’d kick the ball against, just smack and smack.

Old Jerry he can’t play, he don’t know how,

not now at any rate. He’s too flicking small.

See him in shorts, out in the crazy black.

Rythm, he says, and ryme. See him at back.

He don’t know nuthing about Law. He’d fall

flat on his face, just like a big sack,

when you’re going down the wing, the wind behind you

and crossing into the goalmouth, and they’re roaring

the whole great crowd. They’re up on their feet cheering.

The ball’s at your feet and there it goes, just crack.

Old Jerry dives – the wrong way. And they’re jearing

and I run to the centre and old Bash

jumps up and down, and I feel great, and wearing

my gold and purpel strip, fresh from the wash.