Just what to expect? I’d no idea
As kick off time approached
La Viola flares ringing in my ears
I zipped up my winter coat.
Water cannon in the crowded streets
Had warned me, be concerned
While la polizia checked out Florentines
On their way to a fraught return.
Wild boar on spits were roasting,
Panninis and sickly tripe
Near a stadium that was hosting
La Viola’s chance to put wrong right.
As Gaddafi led his team-mates up *
From a ramp behind the goal
La Viola partisans erupted
Throwing cans and stale bread rolls.
Paolo Rossi looked a kid at most
Zbiggy Boniek a slouch
Michel Platini smiling, stayed in close,
Away from the angered crowd.
Italy as worthy World Champions
Seemed an absolute age ago
To La Viola mugged in the previous campaign
Un’anziana signora da Torino. **
A violet smoke spread o’er the pitch
Swearing filled the air
As experienced players strolled a bit
With the youngest looking scared.
Quickly back down the ramp, they went
To get changed before the match
As the frenzied Viola continued to vent
Rabid frustration, on the champions.
West London never gets like this
I thought with some relief
As La Viola angrily screamed and hissed:
“Meglio secondo di ladri ***