Art as a Mirror of Football
¶ 1
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To some it’s just coincidence,
To some it’s downright eerie.
Others might ascribe it
To the fact that I am tired.
¶ 2
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The European hangover,
To give it its new name,
Means Shels are playing poorly
And my verse is just identical.
¶ 3
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The words fly up and yonder
Like a dictionary sublime.
I pick them out at random
But they do not seem to fit.
¶ 4
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Just as Shels are finding it
Quite hard to readjust,
My rhyming skills are such that I
Feel I have been knocked out.
¶ 5
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Where once the words lay hanging,
Waiting gamely to be plucked,
Now they all have vanished and
I reckon I’m in trouble.
¶ 6
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The other thing I’m finding,
And it’s also going wrong,
Is that my final sentence
Seems to go on seemingly endlessly into a mindless drivel, with no serious attempt to make it scan in the slightest, as if the concept of length were alien to me, which of course it isn’t.
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