Media An SFA Poem Thread from Maj

[The Majestic]

Beneath the clouds where tempests brew,
Where mountains whisper, "Dare pursue,"
The Demons stirred with fire and frost,
But on the East Side… no one’s lost.

The Hawks took flight with eyes like steel,
Their talons sharp, their pace unreal.
They circled high, then dove down low,
With feathers flared and hearts aglow.

The Demons rose from frozen stone,
With icy breath and darker tone.
From Mt Buller’s peaks they charged with pride,
Infernal rage they could not hide.

First bounce was war — no time to chat,
Just boots on turf and fierce combat.
A snap from fifty — Hawks draw first blood,
Their bench erupts in a golden flood.

But Mt Buller bit back, bold and cruel,
Their skipper played like none but rule.
A speccy leapt, a torp that screamed —
For one brief sec, the crowd just dreamed.

Quarter by quarter, the battle swung,
The sirens wailed, the praises sung.
The scoreboard blinked like a heart in fright,
Each goal a dagger, each tackle a fight.

Then came the last — the final turn,
Where legs give out and muscles burn.
The Hawks, though weary, found their air,
While Demons scowled with vengeful glare.

A kick, a smother, a ball gone long,
The crowd stood still — the night felt wrong.
Then through the posts it soared with grace…
And Hawks fans roared across the place.

The siren screamed, the Demons fell,
Their mountain hearts knew this too well.
But handshakes came and heads held high,
Two titans met beneath the sky.

So raise a glass, let stories fly,
Of soaring Hawks and Demons spry.
For when they meet, the sparks ignite—
A turf-bound war, a Sunday fight.

 

[The Majestic]

Down came the Rats from the filthy old swamp,
Thinking they'd give East Side a stomp.
With mud on their boots and a snarl on their face,
They strutted in, thinking they’d own the place.

But green and gold don’t bow or break,
We fly too high, make no mistake.
From first bounce on, we had the pace,
Left those rodents red-faced in disgrace.

The midfield dance? Pure domination,
Swamprats stuck in slow rotation.
Our rucks leapt high, our wings took flight,
While Rats just fumbled left and right.

Their forwards tried a dirty trick,
But Hawks just shrugged — too strong, too slick.
Intercept marks, a coast-to-coast flair,
And not a single Rat could get fresh air.

Their captain screamed, “Dig in, boys, fight!”
But it was clear they’d lost the light.
Each quarter worse than the one before,
The scoreboard read: Hawks want more.

Final siren, a thumping win,
A feathered party set to begin.
While Swamprats slink back through the bog,
The Hawks lit up the East Side fog.

So raise a glass, you mighty flock,
We showed the Rats who's boss of the dock.
They crawled in loud, they left in shame —
East Side Hawks just owned the game.

 

[The Majestic]

The battle raged beneath the final light,
As Vegas roared with claws and pride held high.
But East Side Hawks, with hearts forever bright,
Unfurled their wings and carved across the sky.


The Bears came bold with fury in their stride,
Yet found no ground where Hawks refused to yield.
With grit and flair, the Hawks would not be denied,
Each mark and goal a sword upon the field.


Their feathers flew through dust and bitter sweat,
As sirens wailed and fans began to dream.
One final kick, the scoreboard cold and set—
The Hawks had clipped the Bears, and claimed the theme.


Now eastward winds blow glory’s sacred tune—
The Grand Final waits beneath a golden moon.

 

[GWS Goose]

There once was a man from Nantucket...

I've heard his deeds are greatly over rated

 

[GWS Goose]

I've just found this thread.
Good job The Majestic

 

[The Majestic]

I've just found this thread.
Good job The Majestic

Thanks a lot. Thought I'd have some fun with the poems I write.

 

[The Majestic]

Season Thirty-Nine, the tale unfolds,
Where legends rise and blood runs bold.
Two teams stand tall, their stories spun—
The Hawks and Furies, second to none.

From East Side skies, the Hawks descend,
With wings of fire and will to bend.
They soar on guts, they strike with grace,
Each match a war, each goal a chase.

Their talons sharp, their vision keen,
They carved their path through every scene.
With unity stitched in gold and green,
They play for pride—and not just the screen.

But standing firm with tiger’s snarl,
The Furies bring the fiercest brawl.
From SFA Park, they never yield,
They turn each game into a battlefield.

Claws unsheathed and burning bright,
They hunt by day, they roar at night.
With stripes that flash like warning signs,
They’re warriors forged in battle lines.

Now all roads lead to the final ground,
Where history waits to wrap them 'round.
Two titans meet in Sweet FA’s light,
For glory’s crown, they’ll rage and fight.

The Hawks will fly, the Furies maul,
And one must rise, the other fall.
The siren nears, the fans all scream—
A final dance, a champion’s dream.

So let the footy gods decide,
Which banner breaks, which hearts confide.
But win or lose, they’ve carved their names—
In Sweet FA’s eternal flames.

 

[The Majestic]

They came through storms, they came through fire,
With bruised-up boots and hearts of wire.
Season Thirty-Nine, it ends right here—
Where noise is loud and stakes are clear.

The East Side Hawks, with eyes like steel,
They never blink, they never kneel.
Feathers sharp, they’ve flown through pain,
And now they circle one last gain.

They don’t play safe, they don’t look back,
They pounce, they press, they own the track.
A brotherhood that bleeds the same,
Their wings are built for finals flame.

But Furies? Oh, they don’t forgive.
They scratch, they bite, they burn to live.
From SFA Park they rise like smoke,
A yellow-black-laced tiger cloak.

They’ve roared through hell, they’ve clawed through dirt,
Each bump they gave, each tackle hurt.
A legacy of rage and pride—
They fight for those who never died.

And now the ball is bounced in war,
No room for doubt, no time to stall.
Two titans crash beneath the lights,
One walks away from endless nights.

The scoreboard won’t tell all that’s felt,
The bruises, screams, the punches dealt.
But one thing's sure when boots are hung—
This Grand Final won't go unsung.

So raise your voice, let banners wave,
For all who dare and all who gave.
The Hawks, the Furies — raw, unrefined—
In Sweet FA, they’re battle-defined.