I tried TOO HARD

I tried too hard
I maxed out
On my Mastercard

I tried too hard
I swerved around
Another bollard

I tried too hard
I purchased
Too many birthday cards

I tried too hard
Not to be
A boring bastard

I tried too hard
To reach
the lowest standard

I tried too hard
To be pleasant
That was awkward

I tried too hard
To stay in shape
It wasn’t rewarding 

I tried too hard
To expect the unexpected 
I stayed on guard

I tried too hard
In the pub
I got barred

I tried too hard
On the battlefield
I came home scarred

I tried too hard

I Grew Some Balls and Became a Hockey God

Photo by Kalvin Sainz on Pexels.com

I agreed to play in a friendly
Against Mansfield, again
Even though I’m a novice

To date, my performances
Had been lacklustre
Let’s say I’m not a natural

I decided it was time
To grow some balls
And take some responsibility 

Selected in defence, at right-back
If the ball were to go out of play
It would be all mine

And I knew I could play a pass
Over 20 yards
In a variety of directions

So, that’s what I did
I injected some self-belief
Into my head

We won by 5 to 1
I even made a brief forward run
With the ball

As usual, mistakes were made
But, overall, I lost the fear
I finally found second gear

To call myself 
A hockey god
Is a massive exaggeration 

I’ve got a long way
To go, to be half-decent
Even so, it was a giant leap

INDIAN DRIBBLE

I’ve seen it on the telly
And I thought it looked easy
That was foolish. And now I’ve learned
That I’m terrible at hockey
Sometimes, I swipe at thin air
I play with the grace of a grizzly bear
Generally, I try to keep out of the way
and attempt a few tackles

And, I’ll never be able
To do an Indian dribble

My feet seem to grow
They seem unable to avoid the ball
I give away short and long corners
Then, I stand on the post
A headless chicken, protecting the goal
Recently, I found redemption
I blocked the ball on the goal line
With my stick, I knocked it away

But, I’ll never be able 
To do an Indian dribble

TERMINATOR ON 10-INCH WHEELS, WITH STABILISERS

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

As part of my fitness regime
I’ve been going out running
Usually along a disused railway line
Sometimes across the fields
And through the deer park
Sometimes, the cows are out grazing
And, one day, I had to turn back
When one of them blocked a stile
I couldn’t shoo it away
It was a cantankerous beast
Protecting its calves. Looking vicious

On another occasion, I was close to home
And, at a junction, where two tracks joined
A man on a bicycle, with 2 young boys
Stopped to let me pass
I thanked him, and said ‘I don’t believe this,
I’m overtaking cyclists!’ He laughed
And I ran on, keeping a steady pace
Then, I heard a rumble behind me
Getting closer. I looked over my shoulder 
I couldn’t really see him
But, I knew he was there

Slowly but surely, the rattle got louder
I was being hunted down
By a small Terminator
On 10-inch wheels, with stabilisers
Those little legs pumped as he passed me
And he said, ‘I caught you up!’
I managed a smile, and said, ‘Well done.’
Then, he stopped and waited
For his family to catch him up
I said, ‘Hasta la vista baby!’
And carried on, upping my pace a touch

I kicked on, not too far to go
Rays of sunshine filtered through
The trees, feeding me vitamin D
Then, I heard the rumble again
The Terminator was back!
The rattle got louder, so I kicked on again
As much as I could muster
Determined to win this battle
The noise faded, and I savoured a victory
I finally defeated the Terminator
On 10-inch wheels, with stabilisers

Droplets of Verse: ‘Middle Aged Men in Lycra’

Their bicycles are lightweight racers made of aluminium
Lycra leggings riding up high, into the crack of the bum
Grey haired fellas in dayglo yellow, cruising through rush hour go slow
A bike barmy, latex army pedals through city contraflow
Perspiration pours off them in a smoggy city panorama
Then they ride through the countryside spreading their aroma
The smell of nylon and burning rubber, mingling with sweat
Desperately they pray they won’t need to visit the toilet

Heads down over handlebars, legs like sticks of dynamite
Body pumping, working overtime, muscle definition, skin tight
Nothing left to imagination, pedestrians look away blushing
Bulging buttocks bounce along, and these lycra louts are always cussing
Motorists who misbehave are monstered with verbal abuse
Curse words are cut loose, in between mouthfuls of energy juice
The brake cables on their behaviour have been completely severed
But it’s absolutely clear that they’re really not too bothered

They keep their machines well lubricated, always in good condition
But their attitude really stinks, maybe they should take up fishing
They don’t ask for permission, just ride roughshod everywhere
They swarm through country lanes, motorists should beware
They’re insanely competitive, they dream of Olympic gold
Forgetting completely that they’re far too creaky and old
They stick two fingers up at boy racers, curse at Nissan Micras
They end up stuck in the wrong gear, middle aged men in lycra