Worms - your Ron / takeover poems

[Cricko]

I'm told that Ron has acolytes that keep an eye on the Zone and I'm led to believe that he read my ode and uttered

'Worms, worms, I just can't come to terms with worms'.

I'm also led to believe that Worms is his pet alias for 'Kimura'. Just goes to show, don't it?

You need serious help mate.

 

[Jasrod]

You need serious help mate.

Guess what RHB is putting on the barbecue tonight

 

[Spaceman Spiff]

He must come to Court.

Here we all are, once again...

His account said nought.

Not a bad attempt at a Haiku

 

[RHB]

You need serious help mate.

Yeah, well it helped to pass a few hours without agonising on other things. The trouble is with serious help, it costs a lot of money.

 

[Medway Blue]

A haiku:

Go now, please, Ronald
A cleaner never forgets
Neither do Shrimpers

 

[RHB]

Guess what RHB is putting on the barbecue tonight

Once you've been there............

 

[Spaceman Spiff]

Once you've been there............

View attachment 26915

I’d be careful if I were you - that spider looks like he’s about to nick your dinner

 

[thenobster]

**** off now,
**** off now
Don't care how
But **** off now

 

[Chrisb]

My team has always been Southend
My support for them will never end
For the last few years it has been quite sad
I never thought things could get this bad

Ron Martin was full of promises and talk
Now our only hope is for him to walk
He claimed without him we would be lost
But he dragged us down at such great cost

His personal aims were delayed for years
Now we must hope it doesn’t all end in tears
We need a sale soon so we can start anew
And get us back the club that we once knew

 

[Suffolk Shrimper In Dorset]

There once was a bob-sleigher called Ron Martin

Who had a cresta run habit of farting

He was so quick down the slope

That at the bottom he did hope

His syrup was still there with a parting

(SSID 2023, all rights reserved)

 

[Barry.C]

On the Ning nang Bling Ban Ron
Where his minds gone Kerching , dosh do
And the supporters all say Boo
Theres a song they sing,
When the Freddie goes ping
and the net goes jibber jabber joo
On the Wrong Gone Ron
Where all the monies gone Bong,, Once the onions, sizzle sazzled soo
The Mushrooms sway and the Foxes play
In the Roots that we all once knew

Courtesy of Spike Milligan

 

[* ORM *]

There once was a bob-sleigher called Ron Martin

Who had a cresta run habit of farting

He was so quick down the slope

That at the bottom he did hope

His syrup was still there with a parting

(SSID 2023, all rights reserved)

I think you’ve wasted any expenses on copyrights

 

[OldBlueLady]

I think the sun has got to some of you over the weekend!

 

[RHB]

I think the sun has got to some of you over the weekend!

Wibble!"

 

[Jasrod]

I think the sun has got to some of you over the weekend!

I can assure you some of us worms have dug deep to achieve some of this content. I mean we even have an AI worm joined the ranks. The worm has turned!!!

 

[Firestorm]

an AI-generated short story in the style of Edgar Allen Poe

In the chilling winter of 1990, when the spectre of despair hung heavy over the town of Southend, a football team known as Southend United embarked on a haunting journey that would forever etch their name into the annals of darkness and despair.

Under the pallid moonlight, Southend United, clad in their navy blue uniforms, took to the field with trepidation and hope. The air was heavy with foreboding as they faced their formidable adversaries. Their once triumphant spirits now swathed in a shroud of uncertainty.

The season began with a sense of eerie disarray. The team stumbled through the gloom, their efforts thwarted by a relentless series of defeats. The spectre of relegation loomed ominously, casting a malevolent shadow over the once vibrant club.

Week after week, the haunting cries of disappointed fans echoed through the desolate stadium. Their lamentations pierced the night, mingling with the cold wind that whispered tales of despair. The once-thriving cheers were now swallowed by the abyss of defeat.

As the season progressed, a palpable sense of dread enveloped the club. Desperation consumed the hearts of the players and fans alike. It seemed as though an insidious force was at work, draining their spirits and casting them into the depths of despair.

But amidst the encroaching darkness, a flicker of hope emerged. A new manager, a mysterious figure known as Edgar, arrived to guide the beleaguered team. His enigmatic presence evoked a mixture of curiosity and trepidation. Whispers of his unorthodox methods and unsettling tactics permeated the shadows.

Under Edgar's command, the team underwent a metamorphosis. They trained with an intensity that bordered on madness, their bodies pushed to the limits of endurance. Strange rituals and incantations filled the dressing room, as if invoking otherworldly forces to aid their cause.

And so, the stage was set for the final encounter of the season. The night was as black as ink, the tension thick in the air. Southend United faced their arch-rivals, their collective destiny hanging in the balance.

As the match unfolded, the energy on the field crackled with a malevolent electricity. The players moved with an uncanny precision, their movements almost ethereal. Each pass and shot seemed guided by an invisible hand, as if fate itself had cast its die.

In the dying moments of the game, Southend United found themselves on the precipice of salvation. A penalty was awarded, and the weight of the club's hopes and dreams rested on a single player's shoulders. The crowd held their breath, their eyes fixated on the unfolding tragedy.

The player stepped forward, his heart pounding with a mixture of fear and determination. The haunting gaze of Edgar bore into his soul, urging him onward. With a single stroke, he unleashed the ball, and time stood still.

The ball soared through the air, defying gravity and reason. It seemed to carry with it the collective anguish and longing of the club. And as it found the back of the net, the stadium erupted into a chorus of triumphant screams, mingled with cries of relief and disbelief.

Southend United had survived the darkness, emerging from the depths of despair. The haunting season of 1990-91 would forever be etched in their memories, a testament to their resilience in the face of adversity.

But the echoes of that fateful season still lingered, woven into the fabric of the club's history. The ghostly whispers of defeat and redemption whispered through the corridors of Roots Hall, a reminder of the eerie tale that unfolded under the shadow of Edgar's reign.

And so, as the years passed and new seasons came and went, the tale of the 1990-91 Southend United season remained a haunting legend, whispered among the club's faithful, a testament to the enduring power of darkness and the flickering light of hope.

Thats the plot of Ted Lasso …

 

[Firestorm]

With more than a nod to This be the Verse by Philip Larkin

This Be The Blues​

They **** you up, your Football club.

They may not mean to, but they do.

They fill you with the faults they had

And add some extra, just for you.



But they were ****ed up in their turn

By fools in boardrooms, banks and such ,

Who half the time advise would spurn

And half just never saying much.



Man hands on misery as his want.

It deepens like a coastal shelf.

Get out as early you clueless c**t,

And let us get past July 12th

 

[HUMBLEPIE]

Hey diddle diddle Rons on the fiddle again.