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Born in nineteen sixty-two,
I still have hazy memories
Of our Triumph four years later:
Staring at the black-white screen,
Chanting “We’ve won the Cup!”,
Not fully comprehending why the fuss.
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And if I peer into the avenir,
I can likewise vaguely discern
Visions of future success:
An England Captain, his features blurred,
As is the number on his shirt,
But clear shines forth the gleam in his eyes,
For he holds aloft the won World Cup,
The planet’s greatest Prize.
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From which year does this picture stem?
Twenty fourteen? Twenty-eighteen?
No, no, too soon, not then, not then.
It stems from further down the line,
From some date shrouded in the mists of time,
And not, I fear, in my lifetime.