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The ballad of Jermaine Pennant

The morning sun fell lightly on
the boots of Jermaine Pennant,
in a lonely training centre
in an English midlands town.
It could have been him, perhaps,
winning international caps,
but his team-mates had all flown off
and Jermaine was feeling down.

At the age of twenty eight,
he realised he’d never play
for England in the World Cup
with the warm wind in his hair.
The hotline had stopped ringing,
so he stood there softly singing
English folk songs that he’d memorised
in his daddy’s easy chair.

International weeks were murder,
the training ground was bare,
and there were oh so many ways
for him to spend the day.
He could practise throws like Rory’s
or tell himself bright stories,
or dribble round the static cones
that lined up in his way.

At the age of twenty eight,
he realised he’d never play
for England in the World Cup
with the warm wind in his hair.
The hotline had stopped ringing,
so he stood there softly singing
English folk songs that he’d memorised
in his daddy’s easy chair.

The evening sun fell lightly on
the boots of Jermaine Pennant
as he sat in his apartment
with his mobile at his side.
It takes a certain irrationality
to change your nationality,
and he sat there softly dreaming
of the greener grass outside.

At the age of twenty eight,
he thought that he might play
for Ireland in the World Cup
with the warm wind in his hair.
The telephone was ringing,
but he sat there softly singing
Irish rebel songs he’d memorised
in Grand-daddy’s easy chair.


Jermaine Pennant has just dicovered an Irish grandparent and now wants to play for the Republic. Puh-leeze.

 

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