Wigan’s Glory, St’Helens’ Gloom

Wigan’s Glory, St’Helens’ Gloom

At St’Helens’ ground, the crowd did roar,

A rugby clash—just like before.

My brother proud, all bold and keen,

Said, “This time, Wigan won’t be seen!”

The whistle blew, the game took flight,

Red and white—a blazing sight.

A try, a kick, the scoreboard climbed,

While St’Helens’ hopes got redefined.

Ten to nil, then twenty more,

Saints looked lost, a sinking score.

My brother’s face, a quiet frown,

Each Wigan point just brought him down.

The fans went wild—fifty flat!

The Saints, it seemed, forgot their strat.

The ref just sighed, the clock ticked slow,

While Wigan danced with every blow.

“Fifty-nothing!” I did shout,

As my brother tried to work it out.

He muttered something dark and low,

About the wind and how it’d blow.

So here’s to Wigan, bold and grand,

And Saints still dreaming in the sand.

Next round’s on him, no need to gloat—

Just wear your scarf and watch him mope.

Maybe they should try a pie once in a while

This would give them a winners style

This poem is aimed at our John

Just some family fun. Now I am done! Ha ha