Through Gritted Teeth #6: Tony Pulis

by David Bevan

That accent, so grating,
So infuriating,
That cap, that peak,
Delap so integral,
Pointing out like a beak,
The long throw essential,

That style, that approach,
Not an admirable coach,
But here I confess,
I admire his success,

For now it is May and they’re still in the hunt,
For the cup of FA with Jon Walters up front,
I just don’t understand it, just how he has planned it,
It just shouldn’t work, it just seems berserk,

A different May, three years to the day,
Stood in their away end, I resorted to pray,
Religion? Not often, but greatly in need,
Relegation the problem, for the want of a lead,

But we drew and we cried and we left and felt lost,
They invaded the pitch, we had drawn at our cost,
Soon we were back, but nowhere to be found,
Were those red and white stripes that fired us down,

To the depths of despair, long gone but where?
The answer? Top flight, displaying their might,
Their strength, their resolve, their fight and their bite,
I’ve tried hard to hate them, I cannot quite do it,
Bitterness formed, respect flooded through it,

At their heart, a Welsh chief,
Who gives them belief,
And someone I admire,
Through most gritted of teef…

Ladies and gentlemen, Mr David Bevan! Poet laureate of the Football League. When not in helpless thrall to his muse, David maintains The Seventy Two, an independent website devoted to all things Championship, League One and League Two. Find him on Twitter: @The72Football.

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