Mark Griffiths (Wrexham’s New Eastern Europe Scout), made a mistake in the latest Gazzetta Dello Wrexham, of greater significance than Ed Miliband forgetting to mention the deficit. Watch his opening lines, and you will notice that a huge chunk of his opening gambit is missing. All that viewers get of an intended section of his speech is his superb poem on Wilkin’s intentions to sign players. He completely forgot to mention the new Wrexham Supporters Association Poetry Workshops.
Football fans, are creative ,sensitive and delicate beings. They need an avenue for this creativity and the WSA have kindly offered Mark’s house as a venue, where we can explore our inner selves in a warm and supportive environment. I find it difficult to open up emotionally about my deepest poetic feelings, but with Mark’s encouragement I have agreed to publish some of the verse from my vast private collection. Please don’t judge my efforts too harshly, I am a fragile orchid coming out into the light for the first time.
Wordsworth Revamped (or redemption is available to all)
I wandered lonely as a cloud, around the Deva Stadium.
My friends were nought , I failed with girls, my Saturdays were tedium.
When all at once I saw a crowd, a host of daffs across the border.
I joined the Reds, friends flooded in, my sex life is in order.
Beverley McEvily’s Brother
technique relied heavily,
on pain dished summarily.
His twin sister Beverley,
got the looks of the family.
The Craftsman’s Play-off Final Lament
My Spirits sawed!
Like a carpenter with some new timber.
My heart re-joist!
Like a joiner on a worn out roof,
but my dreams varnished into the evening air,
like a polisher on a patio table.
Because you, Brett Ormerod, hammered your chance over the bar,
like a big Git!
(To be recited in a Pam Ayres stylee)
I’m a lifelong Wrexham fan, you’ll find hard to convince.
My first time watchin’, the team was shockin’ , it’s got worse ever since.
The latest five nil win away , I struggled to endure.
It covered up our gaping cracks, we’re basically manure.
The Club I love, has been beset, with idiots in charge.
The wings can’t cross, the mids don’t boss, we get sliced through like marge.
I struggle every day to find, a basic we don’t lack,
We’re eight points clear, the pies are dear, I’m never going back!
Dates for your Diary
Sun 11th Jan – Inaugural meeting of WSA Poetry Group at Griffiths Towers, 5am (Creativity blossoms early morning). Mark will be providing Lidl Value Rich Tea Biscuits and Tea. Bang loudly on the door and shout “I’m a poet, let me in”.
Sun 25th Jan – Our first ‘Poetry-off’ versus Chester FC (Good on Haikus, weak on limericks)
Sun 8th Feb – ‘An Evening of Poetry with Geraint Parry’ entitled ; “The Wirral Speaks to me”.
Join now! (Spaces limited.)