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Like ants that toil upon the soil
Around the anthill’s base,
We do not care what happens there
On further up the face.
Our eyes don’t scour the mighty tower
With eagerness and hope
Although we feel that someday we’ll
Be back atop that slope.
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Where once the Cup would fire us up,
Alas, it’s all gone flat.
Plight unresolved, we’re not involved
And hype can’t alter that.
We’re too removed, as time has proved
To bother with Cup glories.
We’re like the ants not at the dance,
Engrossed in local stories.