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So Wolves have been ruthless and they have sacked old Mick, which is a shame…
You see I’m a big fan of ‘straight-talking’ Mick McCarthy and to commemorate this I have found a fantastic poem that defines Mick’s time at Wolves and his presence in the current managerial climate..
by Francisco de Borja Roca – 1999
An old, grey-maned King am I,
Barking my gruff orders under Orion’s sky
And, beneath my throne of dew and stone
My people, all sinew and bone,
Flashing fangs and eyes of smold’ring coals,
Haunched on brawny hinds they do attend me.
Ah, my soul is gnarled, like gnarled the tree
I nightly choose for blessed sleep;
Aye, the Hunt has tired me-
‘Tis only Time’s matter
Till a brash whelp’s challenge
Brings me ‘neath the turf of my shady fief.
Yet I was strong once, if still it matters;
Aye, my quarters taut, my shadow lean and gaunt
Yet brimm’d with power- unlike now, so much more tame,
My ribs a bony rigging
For my ragg餬 scar-creased frame.
They have called me Heather-Sceptered, Oak-Garbed,
Star-Crowned Ruler of the Hunt.
Yet look ye now… where is this night-caped regnant?
Nothing but a weak, starving bag
Holding the bones of former days am I,
Howling former glories to the Moon and stars-
At times I think the Moon howls back,
The white-skinned, tight-snouted bitch all mock’ry and jest
Upon my old age, as I curl upon my back for wanted rest
Under the shade of my gnarled oak-tree.
The time is come- can you not hear the howling?
The Hunt is called again…
this time without me.
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