The pen is mightier than the sword

When the football season was near halfway
Clubs were paired together in cup replay,
Swapping London ground for midland.
QPR at Wolves, the gold of Stafford,
Playing for a final at Old Trafford;
Noisy cauldron with the lid manned!

Ringside neighbours were two poets seated:
One who cheered to see the Wolves defeated;
One left drained and slumped depressive.
Post-match saw their crowded pressed departure,
Golden silence filled our mockney marcher,
As the crowd became oppressive.

Grip upon his shoulder tense did tighten,
“You’re not from round here mate!” Did frighten;
Conscious now of sore thumb status.
Shirt exposed with white-blue colours banded
Apprehended now and caught mob-handed,
Foretold soon a grave hiatus.

Flushed with London Pride he drew his docket:
Dog-eared license from his jacket pocket,
Shouting “Back off, I’m a poet!”
But these thugs cared not for men poetic
Nor the warning broadcast, stripes prophetic;
If they did they didn’t show it.

Ten tattooed antagonists unblinking
Versus wordsmiths poised for further inking,
Moleskin notebooks at the ready,
Facing baleful yellow hearts now blackened,
Circled by the pack whose jaws were slackened,
Lines they’d drawn were holding steady.

Fingers raised, lips pursed in shrill aggression,
Wolves decried as sheep with fancy dress on,
Piper pied in two-tone glory
Led the dance in nimble quickstep dapper,
Bullies charged towards his stripy capa;
But they’d gone in prematurely.

As the hoop ran rings and circles rounded,
Standing suited, booted, coolly grounded,
Wolves all pitched in as one man united:
Two-to-one they were outnumbered cruelly
As semantics turned the tables duly;
Every cursed move was blighted.

Twas a paper-chase born of allusion:
Shadow-boxing, sparring an illusion.
Naught was broken but the rhyming:
Where wolves strove to smack them six feet under-
Dogs were there to nip and steal their thunder-
Clapping all about acoustics.

Lupines tamed by prose provoking sadness,
Writhed a snaked descent deep into madness,
Wrestling with an abstract essence.
With the cards spooked who’d shown the most front
The exhausted pack gave up the ghost hunt;
Lost their heart in acquiescence.

Came the time to hark their due denouncement,
Ears bent flat to hear a stark pronouncement,
Yielding prostrate in repentance.
Judgement clapped in thunder supersonic:
Bard’s decree with last word homophonic
Gaoled them with a final sentence.