Within the East Stand’s intemperate tropics,
beneath those apocryphal prawns,
life is measured by flat perspectives.
Managers, akin to former prime ministers
pacing Fife platforms with friendly fire
and oblique warnings for Jeremy Corbyn,
make decisions any rules of etiquette
would disallow. In thrall to mystery
satellites, it’s theatrically sound
to walk on water supplied by fans,
offering vessels for the waves to no-one.