This weeks collection from the COYSDC lyricists I

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By The COYSDC Poets
July 12 2002

They're like the enchanted broomsticks in Disney's Fantasia as more and more ditties pour into the poetry file. This week it's overflowed so we've spilt it down the middle. Below are the poems, limericks and songs that relate to rugby matters and the Saints. Apologies to the original artists!

Binary Bob
Without live Rugby- thought I might cry,
Perhaps even worse- of bordeom could die,
But I can gain some cheer,
With a tin of chilled beer,
And my monthly subscription to Sky.

St.Marlowe
Our West Midland Saint's Hyberbolic
And the postings are getting shambolic
No announcements forthcoming
though the wires are humming
We're all feeling the strain something chronic

Smudger has a grand plan for the season
We all trust his instincts, with good reason
He'll deliver the goods
We'll be out of the woods

St.Marlowe
T******s, and Schumi and Ferguson's team
Met together to plan all their deals
they said, if we spend and we spend and we spend,
We'll be first in our respective fields

For years they all worked, not one of them shirked
and they suceeded beyond all their dreams
But success brought its pain, and they were met with disdain
And they won to the true sportmen's screams

The games are all boring, the same people scoring
Result sheets the same every time
Money gets to the the top, and no one can stop
Because failure to win is a crime

Business demands cash returns all the time
Sportsmanship dont pay the rent
If you can't pay your way, then you'll hit the highway
And we'll show you that our words were meant

The balance is fine between their way and mine
Sure money's important to all
But mammon's the way, to stifle fair play
and these teams will all head for a fall

For on the way down, the businesses frown
As they look for their next six month plan
They'll divest their shareholding, as teams begin folding
And scarper as fast as they can

The spiral gets steeper, towards the grim reaper
As those who have followed the lead
Feel the pinch even harder, results become harder
And the "fans" are departing at speed

When sportsmaship goes there's nowt left but woes
At the Gardens there's still plenty of it
Barwell's a true fan, and while theres a Business Plan
The club's more important than profit

Excessive Prawn Sandwiches, mean a club culture which is
Subservient to the great god Mammon
And we'll shout when we see it, all Saints would agree it
Oi, SAINT no! You want it with jam on


So, T******s, and Schumi and Ferguson's team
Can spend all the money they've got
But profit's a curse, and they'll end up much worse
While Smudger will lift the big pot!


West Midlands Saint
St Marlowe, my chum, you sound very glum
With your tale of despondence and woe.
Though we sit with sad hearts, our game run by farts
Down at Twickers all counting their dough.

We know they're tightfisted, all bitter and twisted
Because the pro games a success.
But who would have thought we'd become so distraught
We mustn't succumb to the stress.

There must come a day, when someone will say
"Enough is enough - sort it out"
And if I'm still here, I shall by you a beer
But not that bloody stuff you were drinking in the week with a name that is totally unsuitable for use on a site that might be viewed by young children.

St.Marlowe
WMS me old china, I couldn't feel finer
I know that we'll win in the end
When Mammon's departed we'll all feel lighthearted
and sport will be king, my old friend

Prawn sandwiches gorn, the suits all folorn
cos they'll have to support from the stands
and if they don't like it, they'll just have to take it
and sing, and clap those fat hands

For the Money you see, will depart the ZP
Oh so fickle these sponsors can be
They've used us for years, so don't shed no tears
Leave the cynics to sponsor Grand Prix

"Hands on the Ground", the shout will ring round
from the ref now unbiased and free
Not heard that in an age, PCP fly in a rage
Cheats never prosper you see

So lets drink good beer and be of good cheer
For we know that we'll win in good time
When clubs like the Saints, will be free of all taints
From Big Business, and all of it's slime

WMS
The wonderful thing about Tiggers
Is Tiggers don't know how to sing
And when it comes to the rugby
To win they will do anything
Use backhanders
Blind to Landers (and any other referee)
Cheat, cheat, cheat, cheat, cheat
But the most wonderful thing about tiggers
Their songbook's incomplete.

St. Marlowe
Sing a song for T*****s
They can't sing one themselves
Four and twenty Welbad songs
languish on the shelves
When the songbooks opened
singers were there not
so Saints come to the rescue
to try and stop the rot

West Midlands Saint
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills
When all at once I saw a crowd
Wading through the Guinness spills;
Beside the lake, beneath the stands
What's that? A host of Jimmies fans.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
They'd come to watch the Jimmies play;
Ten thousand saw I at a glance
The opposition stood no chance.

The other fans could sing; but they
Were soon out-done by Tetley's crew
This simply would not be their day
This was not like the house of Pooh.
I gazed-and gazed-but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought.

But oft, here at my screen I dwell
In vacant or in pensive mood
My friends, the truth I now must tell
I can not stand this solitude;
While others summer, getting tans
I miss you bloody Jimmies fans.

WMS with apologies William Wordsworth.

St.Marlowe
TO A SAINT (A bit of a lark!)

UP with me! up with me into the HC!
For thy song, Saint, is strong;
Up with me, up with me into the HC!
Singing, singing,
With clouds and sky about thee ringing,
Lift me, guide me till I find
The tryline which seems so to thy mind!

I have walked through Welbad dreary
And to-day my heart is weary;
Had I now the wings of a Faery,
Up to thee would I fly.
There is Smudger about thee, and joy divine
In that song of thine;
Lift me, guide me high and high
To thy Gardens in the sky.
Joyous as morning
Thou art laughing and scorning;
We are the best for thy black, green and gold vest,,
And, though little troubled with sloth,
Drunken Jimmie! thou would'st be loth
To be such a traveller as I.
Happy, sodden Liver,
With a soul as strong as Angus Beef
Pouring out praise to the Almighty Keef,
Joy and jollity be with us both!

Alas! my journey, rugged and uneven,
Through Sales dark moors or dusty Bath must wind;
But hearing thee, or others of the Franklin's kind,
As full of Guiness and as free of heaven,
I, with my fate contented, will sing on,
And hope for higher raptures, when the Zippee's won.