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Embers of a sunset bleed
more light than warmth this hour
above this stadium, now empty like a sinner.
Victory cries once echoed,
where now concrete walls devour
dead dreams and memories of those who knew a winner.
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Fifth week of the season
with results by now sufficient
for the feeblest fools to know there’s no promotion,
sell souls to flee the fear
and pray that by this time next year
they’ll still be here to offer up the same devotion.
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sit back at different kinds of clubs
where they can stay out late, for they won’t train tomorrow,
while we just scratch our heads,
then kiss our kids and hit our beds
to face five weekdays full of work, but much less sorrow.
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But we’ll still feel the pull
in six days, real problems to dull,
and if they start with brightness, we will cheer these men.
History’s higher powers
all knew losers. These are ours.
The heart is like this. Love and hate this year again.