Leeds United on the attack
No sign of holding back
No matter what the score
We keep knocking on that door

Slicing through opposing lines
Creating chances many times
We really should score many more
That would bring us to the fore

Bamford bangs them in of course
Making us a formidable force
Get those shooting boots on, one and all
Let’s get past that defensive wall

Raphinha brings Brazilian magic
His silky skills are so fantastic
Kalvin runs the midfield show
Gives our team a rapid flow

Bielsa’s brain and dedication
Provides us with a firm foundation
He has us marking man for man
Keeping to the pressing plan

People hated us in the past
Now they love us, no more typecast
Strange to be so often praised
Enjoying having our profile raised

So here’s to Leeds, our beloved team
Hoping soon to be the cream
Keep going you men in white
Aiming for a future bright

Paul Butters

© PB 10\3\2021.

It seems that football and beer is a  much More desired plan today
Than words spoken from the heart or wisdom... or art of the grey,
But what can I say?
I'm too passionate about it,
I can't give up...

Shadows of the past coming to remind me that once upon a time I was quite okay with everything...
As long as I was myself and I was mine not someone elses...

I guess I grew up and I prefer another path... Something that makes me feel complete... myself...

Bielsa’s Boys go bombing on.
Hear it, hear it,
Hear our song.

Running further than the rest,
Leeds United are the best.
Scything through the opposition,
Scoring goals our only mission.

Top flight teams are running scared,
Afraid of a team that’s uncompared:
Players drilled on “Murderball”,
Making them feel so very tall.

We’ve even a Brazilian in our team.
Bielsa buys only the cream.
Brazil themselves are doing great deeds:
They say they’re playing just like Leeds.

Shame about those missing fans,
Still busy washing their hands.
Can’t wait for that Elland Road roar
Celebrating every score.

Before too long we’ll be World Champs,
Shining bright like electric lamps.
Bamford scoring all those goals,
Shutting the mouths of Keane and Scholes.

Bielsa’s Boys go bombing on.
Hear it, hear it,
Hear our song.

Paul Butters

© PB 1\1\2021.

I sat on top of the world; everyone knew my name
Now I try to find my way back, all I know is shame

My cars; crashed into parties, everyone wanted to be in my fancy wear
Why didn’t I look up investing and insuring; now I don’t mind if its rag, please just give me something to wear

My name was held in high esteem, white line called to me from Whitney’s rear
She never came back for me, but watched as I derail

Day and Night, I looked up to Whiskey, it became my religion
Now at the altar in search of salvation from the true religion

                           ♚
                   Kunbi Dia

It was in my mother’s father’s final days when Beckham curled it in against Greece
It should have been wrapped up months or at least minutes prior
But for the English
Football is a beautiful form of torture
Some relief in the dark and painful last of his days
It may sound dramatic from the outside
But from the inside
When you’re in on the secret
Football has always been the beautiful game for a reason
And fate was sealed that day

The infamous Zidane headbutt
It came at a time when I was realising people aren’t perfect and heroes are human
For me, not a disgrace, but a lesson
The world’s greatest are also flawed

Lampard 2010 World Cup
It was over the line
I know it
You know it
But the greatest journeys all have their ups and downs
Their misfortunes and their injustices
Our time is nigh
It’s coming home

The psychopathic work ethic of Ronaldo
The glue on the boots of Messi
The precision of the Pirlo pass
The ‘Why always me?’
The ‘You’ll never walk alone’
The wins, the losses
The joy, the heartbreak
The frustration of supporting a yo-yo that never goes all the way up
An ode to my forever unmentioned Plymouth Argyle
The screamers, the blunders
From Thierry to Titus Bramble
Alonso to Okocha
The once-club-record-signing whose name now evades you
The heroes, the villains
The naive dream that maybe one day you’ll make it
And the hope that maybe this will be our year
The diving, the referees, the relegations, the failure
The 4-0 thrashings by the rivals, the penalties and quarter finals

I don’t know why I do it to myself
But I know that I wouldn’t have it any other way
This is the beautiful game
This is football

As a typer of what might be
Poetry
I am a football manager
With WORDS as my players.

Words in a Deep W Formation –
Total free verse
Hopefully forming a diamond.
No buses parked here
As my words go winging
Down the page.

Not quite five three two
But maybe the odd Haiku
In syllables of five seven five –
For there are far more than eleven syllables
In Poetry.

All writers are the same:
Our words combining
To make meaning,
Passing our visions
Views and feelings
For a crowd of readers
All being well.

Words to be chanted
By crowds enchanted –
Songs for a stadium
That is our united mind.

Paul Butters

© PB 16\8\2020.

Honey badger *******
Ugly son of ***** predator
Little ****** girl so sweet
Looking for something wild tonight
Ravage me like a beast please