The Grim Keeper
Our goalie can not catch,
He can’t even punch
He spilled everything
On Saturday including his lunch.
His hands are pure butter
Right up to his wrist,
He waves as the ball goes past
Unable to make a fist.
He’s too scared to dive,
His positionings all to pot
And it’s as if both his boots
Have been tied together in a knot.
He never comes for corners
Just quivers between each post
And when he spots their striker,
You’d think he'd seen a ghost.
He can’t save for toffee,
He’s not athletic he’s unfit
And the only thing he keeps clean,
Each week is his Goalkeeper’s kit.
He can’t even punch
He spilled everything
On Saturday including his lunch.
His hands are pure butter
Right up to his wrist,
He waves as the ball goes past
Unable to make a fist.
He’s too scared to dive,
His positionings all to pot
And it’s as if both his boots
Have been tied together in a knot.
He never comes for corners
Just quivers between each post
And when he spots their striker,
You’d think he'd seen a ghost.
He can’t save for toffee,
He’s not athletic he’s unfit
And the only thing he keeps clean,
Each week is his Goalkeeper’s kit.
This poem is copyright (©) Bernard Pearson 2024
About the Writer
Bernard Pearson
Bernard's work appears in many publications, including; Aesthetica Magazine, The Edinburgh Review, Crossways, The Gentian, Nymphs The Poetry Village, Beneath The Fever, The Beach Hut Little Stone, The Caterpillar Magazine. In 2017 a selection of his poetry ‘In Free Fall’ was published by Leaf by Leaf Press. In 2019 he won second prize in The Aurora Prize for Writing.
