Football Poet - The Clockmaker’s Requiem Lyrics

A nation's clock stopped at zero hour
Hands rusted on V-E Day's tower
Then Wembley wound its gears anew
Ninety-eight thousand breaths held blue
First touch: a cross, a curse, a crack
Turner's boot wrote on fate's own back
Own net rippled like a shrapnel scar
War's ghost scored the opening bar

Oh, Time-you thief, you jester, you muse
Turner's free-kick arcs, the crowd's excuse
Deflection's kiss, the net's false sigh
One-one under April's fractured sky

We are the menders of broken ticks
Stamps' boots chisel midnight into '46
From coal pits to constellations, we clawed through the grime
Four strokes past extra, the clockmaster's time

Ninety-three: Doherty's thread through Time's split seam
Stamps rounds Bartram-goal two, the crowd's first scream
Ninety-seven: net burst like a supernova's womb
Leather through twine-did the post cheat the tomb
Referee squints through chrononaut's haze
"Goal!"-and History blinks at its own replay
One-thirteen: Stamps ascends, header into myth
The scoreboard weeps-four-one, the war's last rift

They cast him in bronze, arm raised to the stars
But Stamps lives where stopwatches nurse their scars
Each rusted rivet in Pride Park's veins
Sings April '46-when Time changed lanes

We are the menders of broken ticks
Stamps' boots chisel midnight into '46
From coal pits to constellations, we clawed through the grime
Four strokes past extra, the clockmaster's time