I made an earlier attempt at expressing my thoughts on Carlton in another topic, then went for a walk, still thinking about how I'd really describe them. I give you the results, in the hope that it may prompt similar stirring, and hopefuly be read by that troll Blue Balls who amuses himself by stiring things up here every no and again.
O Carlton how I loathe you
You are like your colours,
a bruise on the milky white flesh of a fair maiden,
fit only to be sucked out by leaches and excreted
as a foetid black stain, sterile, lifeless.
You are vile and corrupt,
A mansion constructed of tepid dogs turds,
Papered-over by a thin film of 100 dollar notes,
With putrid brown sludge seeping through the cracks,
And sliding down to pools of sewerage, reeking.
Your players edge around your house,
Afraid to touch the walls,
But with hands held forth for their pay,
To be furtively wiped of filth,
Tainting hands, shorts, shirts, anything touched, with a foul stain.
Your supporters are a blight,
Infatuated with the quick fix, the fast buck, the I’m alright jack,
Rabidly faithful to the latest coat of gilt paint,
Only to turn their backs when your house collapses,
Overwhelmed at last by a final corruption load.
But never fear, fickle faithful!
A champion of the underworld will arise,
Bloated and arrogant on ill-gotten gains,
To rebuild with fresh-laid sh!t, gild with new-minted lucre,
an edifice to the power of mammon, magnificent, glowing,
and corrupt to the core.
O Carlton how I loathe you
You are like your colours,
a bruise on the milky white flesh of a fair maiden,
fit only to be sucked out by leaches and excreted
as a foetid black stain, sterile, lifeless.
You are vile and corrupt,
A mansion constructed of tepid dogs turds,
Papered-over by a thin film of 100 dollar notes,
With putrid brown sludge seeping through the cracks,
And sliding down to pools of sewerage, reeking.
Your players edge around your house,
Afraid to touch the walls,
But with hands held forth for their pay,
To be furtively wiped of filth,
Tainting hands, shorts, shirts, anything touched, with a foul stain.
Your supporters are a blight,
Infatuated with the quick fix, the fast buck, the I’m alright jack,
Rabidly faithful to the latest coat of gilt paint,
Only to turn their backs when your house collapses,
Overwhelmed at last by a final corruption load.
But never fear, fickle faithful!
A champion of the underworld will arise,
Bloated and arrogant on ill-gotten gains,
To rebuild with fresh-laid sh!t, gild with new-minted lucre,
an edifice to the power of mammon, magnificent, glowing,
and corrupt to the core.
