Snooker Poem by Paul Butters

Simon 'Hurricane' Hudson prowls the snooker table
Like any good mixed metaphor would.
A modern day Pythagoras
He triangulates his shots.

Meanwhile his rival, lion-heart 'Rocket' Richard,
Not to be confused with Lionel Richie,
Is on his mobile Googling
How to play the perfect 'snooker'.
And the two Perfect Pauls
Discuss the latest football,
While 'Whirlwind' Wendy sits in judgement,
Knitting the night away.

At long last Simon plays a stroke! ! !
And rattles those unrelenting jaws
Of that elusive pocket yet again.

The game rolls on.
But where the hell is Simon?
The clock on the electricity is running down
But where is Simon?
Where is he?
He's at the bar
Telling barman Nick how Rochdale
Will win The Cup one day.

Hurray, he's back to play again.
Cascading planets collide into new orbits
As they did in the Primeval Solar System.

We play on,
Safely keeping those precious balls
Away from those black holes
They call the 'pockets'.
We try to pick our shots
(At those pockets lol)
But all we keep potting
Is that white one.
Maybe we should switch to Billiards,
Or pot some plants instead.