Spookily timed to coincide with Valentine's Day, we asked you to pen us a football-related love poem. You didn't disappoint. Well, that's not true - some of you did, like A. Sherwood, for example, who wrote:

Hello Man United
You get me so excited
You are a team that rule
Because you are so cool

However most of the 100 plus entries weren't bad at all. No really. Obviously, we weren't qualified enough to pick the winner so we roped in Justine Jordan, eminent critic and editor of Guardian Unlimited Books, to do it for us.

The winning entry receives the tippety-top prize of a football signed by the entire England squad, courtesy of Eidos - manufacturer of the king of all football games Championship manager.

Now, here are Justine's top five poems, in reverse order...

Fifth place: All My Ardour Flows To Tottenham

Had other loves,
But I've forgotten 'em;
All my ardour
Flows to Tottenham

Tottenham tickets
Tottenham kits
Wife's got 'Tottenham'
Tattooed on her
Arm.

Bury my body at White Hart Lane
On Valentine's Day
In the driving rain
In injury time
At a nil-nil draw
"He loved his Spurs:
'Nuff said. Ta-ta."

Then a moment of silence,
A time to reflect,
As Sol and Teddy pay their respects:
"So tragic," they'll say, "is wasted youth;
one thinks of life's eternal truths."

"Yes, you're right," Glenn Hoddle will say.
- Arsenal does suck."

Michael Collins (2002)

Justine writes: "The irresistible 'forgotten 'em/Tottenham' rhyme is reminiscent of Byron at his sprawling best in Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, but the 'kits... arm' surprise owes more to Pam Ayres. There's nice internal variation in the tempo, though the closing sentiments are up for debate, particularly, one imagines, from Sol Campbell."

Fourth place: Leeds united

Leeds United,
of foot (and fist?)
so fleet;
Your splendid robes of white unsullied candour
give the lie
to an ingrate
nation's slandour.

But what do such trials
as yours recover
when you cannot even beat
the 'Boro.

Graeme Pearson, Switzerland

Justine writes: "A taut, jaunty rhythm for a dark subject: references to candour and slander, lies and trials, foot and fist, take us off the pitch and back into court. If this is a love poem, it's an ambiguous and resentful passion that may be on the wane."

Third place: Bonnie Scotland

My team is Bonnie Scotland
I see them when I can
They've never failed to cheer us up
When drawing with Iran

But then we had a golden game
And stuffed the Dutch 3-2
We still remember Archie's goal
But forget about Peru

In 82 we went to Spain
Brazil were pretty scary
But again we scored a crackin' goal
A "toe-poke" from Dave Narey

That just wound them up a bit
They started to get tough
They really didn't break much sweat
Scoring four past Alan Rough

We had to beat the Soviets
But they hit us with a killer
They scored after the Highland fling
By Hansen and Willie Miller

Now 86 was Mexico
We lost to Danes and Krauts
The 10-man Uruguayans
Were the next to knock us out

Italia 90 came along
Against Sweden we were peakin'
But this year's humiliation came
At the feet of a Costa Rican

94 brought great relief
No need to fret or cry
We knew our limitations
And we didnae qualify

In France we almost beat Brazil
We played our normal role
When Tommy Boyd turned around
And scored the winning goal

The team is in a little slump
They haven't won too many
In fact they've hardly kicked a ball
Since Souness and King Kenny

We used to fight and battle
And win against the odds
We now have Christian Dailly
And a wee reserve named Dodds

So it comes as no great surprise
To any lifelong fan
When the Scots decided not to go
To Korea and Japan

I've tried to summarised for you
Scottish football or Scottish farce
And if I win your English prize
Can you shove it up yer arse.

Stuart Buttar (2002)

Justine writes: "The mighty William McGonagall has an heir at last. (If you don't know McGonagall, here's a taster, from "The Tay Bridge Disaster":

'Oh! ill-fated Bridge of the Silv'ry Tay,
I must now conclude my lay
By telling the world fearlessly without the least dismay,
That your central girders would not have given way,
At least many sensible men do say,
Had they been supported on each side with buttresses,
At least many sensible men confesses,
For the stronger we our houses do build,
The less chance we have of being killed.'

"It's not winning the prize, though," Justine adds, "for obvious cowardly Sassenach reasons."

Second Place: Shall I compare...

Shall I compare thee to ambition gone astray?
Thou art so artless and frustrating.
Few wins I'll see on Saturdays 'ere May,
Though many lofted balls, false hopes creating.
Sometime too hot the wrath of Doug doth shine,
And often is his chequebook locked away,
Denying thee the players that are thine,
Until the dawning of a better day;
But your eternal glory shall not fade,
Though twenty years have passed and little won,
Back then 'twas as it should be played,
A European victory in the sun.
So long as Doug is there and breathing still
The Villa will screw up, you bet they will.

Paul Flint (2002)

Justine writes: "If in doubt, get Shakespeare on your side. This modern sonnet enlists the bard with style and flair; it stands alone, though can be fruitfully compared to Sonnet XVIII, "Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?" - the poet echoes the original in words and rhythm throughout.

"Shakespeare's love object's 'eternal summer shall not fade'; nor shall the Villa's glory. Love is not love that alters with a managerial changeover."

First place: Mickeygol

The ball is not real yet
It floats in the air
Wobbling and jiggling
Not spherical like you think it is

It falls inevitably to Michael Owen

His first touch
Is a magic wand
Bringing the ball
From chaos to order
Making it real

In midfield sometimes
He looks like a small boy
Trying to roll a giant snowball
With his feet

Here in front of goal
The ball snaps into focus

His second touch is to calmly
Put it behind the goalkeeper

Having served his purpose
Mickey releases the ball
Back into the wild

Justine writes: "Space is a mental construct, said the philosopher Berkeley. Dr Johnson answered his tenet of 'esse est percipi', to be is to be perceived, with a kick to a rock and a yelp of pain; proving, he said, that matter does indeed exist.

"If a tree falls in an uninhabited forest, does anyone hear it? Is a football 'real' when it is not yet kicked? This brave, experimental and slightly demented offering has a playfulness reminiscent of EE Cummings.

"It also raises a multitude of philosophical concerns, as Michael Owen's Johnsonian kick 'releases the ball/back into the wild/a place without form'. In the world, Owen is a fine footballer; in the poem, he can reverse entropy itself, 'bringing the ball/from chaos to order'. Now that's love."

Congratulations MJ Wootton, you are a poet!