With Apologies to Oliver Twist and everybody else.
Football, glorious football.
Don't care what it looks like -.
Burned! Underdone! Crude!
Don't care what those crooks like.
Just thinking of growing fat.-
Our senses go reeling.
One moment of knowing that
Full-up feeling from sitting on
Football, glorious football!
What wouldn't we give for
That extra bit more,
that's all that we should live for.
Why should we be fated
to do nothing but brood
Fred Babbin's Other Poems
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Comments about this poem (FOOTBALL by Fred Babbin )
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
William Butler Yeats
(13 June 1865 – 28 January 1939)
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(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
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