Whenever I can I try and do a poem that encapsulates the AFL footy year up to the point of the finals. In case you missed it on my You-Tube Channel (Dave Warner’s from the Suburbs) here is my Ode to Footy 2017.
FOOTY 2017 –dave warner
Footy two thousand and seventeen, March it’s all over red-rover the Orange Tsunami gonna chop the rest up like salami, Brisbane may as well holiday in Lisbon, they’ll have the spoon by June, and stiff cheese for Hard-wick he better get the Tiges moving real quick or he’s for the axe, we gotta stop packs, we need better replays, we gotta freeze these pays, and I don’t friggin’ believe it but there’s a sheila just snapped from the pocket like Lockett, inspired thank God Stephen Milne and The Duck have retired, or it could get awfully messy in the visitors showers, I’m counting the hours till the first ball’s bounced, it’s great to be alive and the big question is will Buckley survive.
Round one: Here it comes and how did that happen? I’m leading the tipping with three. The Dons are back delivering ecstasy – sorry bad choice of words – the Hawks era is dusted, Roos look busted, Rodney Eade exasperated, Swans conquered and lacerated, Crows better than anticipated, Giants eviscerated, Pies probably over-rated so where does that leave Buckley?
Round 2 Roos lose by the solitary it’s becoming a habit, and a convent of nuns would beat the Suns who are running around like a team of John Wayne Bobbits, while Dimma’s Hobbits are undefeated and Dwayne Rampe does a Jana Pittman, shitman what were you thinking? Swans injury listing and sinking, and Ross Lyon’s gonna be flicked before either Eade or Buckley cause the Dockers are nicked, used all their pix for nix and they’re still playing Zac Dawson.
After Anzac Round 5 Crows, Cats, Tiges yet to be defeated, Swans even more depleted lose to the Blues to make it six straight, can’t make the eight, but can still shape it even though it’s a whole season wasted, Giants just off the pace, Harley Bennell off his face removed for airline security, then May and Olee! Andy Leoncelli brings down a terrorist, his Dees long error-list means a loss to the Hawks, Swans finally break the ice but it’s only last-placed Brissy, the Dockers are dizzy supposedly dead and buried won four knocking at the door, Suns are on a tear, beat the Cats, Eade’s re-growing hair until they’re sunk like a junk in the Yangtze, Port-se Tunged, Feng-sweyed, Shanghaied, and Buck’s has only won two.
Half-way and Freo’s in the eight and I told ya – Giants are on top they’ll win a trot, Crows and Tiges got the staggers, Hawks and Swans are still laggers with the blue-baggers and the daggers are out for Bucks and speaking of blokes there’s scandal in the pure-clean Gillon women-friendly machine, two high-ranking office-bearers heinously acting like Romeos, so long-lasting careers are but cameos, what were they thinking, in this organisation that has not time for tanking, why didn’t they content themselves with …drinking … or swearing or wearing dresses and earrings then we could say they were kicking down doors, champions of equality, gender-bending extremities but this ill-conceived calamity no, the Chief had no choice but to preserve integrity with alacrity – especially after the manager for diversity had just given a course at fist university, and then to make matters worse Thomas Bugg plugs in thuggery, which at least makes Bachar’s nut-cracker just a dim memory, but thankfully this mid-season squall is but temporary – and all forgotten as the pointy-end sharpens. And it’s odds-on Bucks will get the chop.
Swans keep winning, Eagles keep sinning, Dogs wobbling, Giants cobbling, Saints pleasing and teasing, Dons threatening, Tiges hanging in, there’s never been a season tighter, results more unfathomable, retirees more admirable – And then O-Cat-astrophe, Danger’s out of the Brownlow, Joel cops a crippler from down low, so the medal is Dust’s for the taking but who knows what colours he’ll wear in eighteen, but it ain’t all beer and skittles, as the end approaches Rodney Eade is assassinated, the statisticians all fascinated with the endless permutations eleven into eight won’t go and of course the Dees stumble, the ultimate treason the last gasp of the season, the Eagles are alive for the time-being … and so I kid you not is Buckley!
So to the end: What a series of finals awaits, we’ll cheer, shed tears, farewell greats, so from a humble footy fan: thank you season two-thousand seventeen, you may well the best that’s ever been.