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Great galleons, mighty men o’ war,
Became well-marshalled football teams.
The might of a ten-pounder’s roar
Was drowned beneath supporters’ screams.
The shots rain in, like bullets that
Once rained cross trenches cloaked in mud.
And now the dreams of men fall flat,
But are not pilled in pools of blood.
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When warriors clash, ‘tis not in some
Forsaken field of far-off shore
But ‘neath the floodlights’ hectic hum
With millions watching on in awe.
But yet the passions still run high –
Valour, honour, loss, fatigue –
A world still wed to battle by
The glory of the Champions League.