If football boots could talk

I was there when you had nowt,    
as hard as the streets    
split dry cracks down the backs    
drinking dubbin      
like half time oranges.    
     
You where ashamed to take me out    
I saw those molded smirks.    
The painted laughter of three white stripes    
washed away on wet grass,    
you left me in the dark, dirty and damp.    
     
I understood the lure of soft and supply,    
the flash of colour, always a substitute,    
 but I had my time,    
the speedy tap dance of leather to leather    
a trawlers catch bulging  in the net.    
     
We both made the most    
of those five minute moments.   
I know we were cheap and angry    
ready to take skin and blood samples  
from anyone who stared too long,  
but you wanted me that way  
and I wanted to see you smile.