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Water teeming from the Russian sky
as two great armies struggle,
to stay afoot in their quest
for the spoils of war in Moscow
a place where western leaders
of the past dreamt of reaching
but never, ever, got past the semi’s
knocked out on away weather being colder.
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As the battle became a stalemate
the leader of the blue army
stepped up in his bid to claim glory.
Seconds later, he wishes he would be
swallowed up by the uncaring ground,
that for centuries had devoured
the tanks, soldiers and heavy artillery
of Western Europe and Asia,
Tripped by the elements he failed.
Not to worry ‘It’s So English’.
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Englishmen are not meant to convert
from the white spot at crucial times.
That department belongs to those
ghastly, cold blooded, Germans.
But maybe it was payback from
the gods of fair play for the
un-Saxon like gush of H2O
that he earlier expelled from his tongue
aimed at his unsuspecting Argentine target,
his captains arm cleverly trying to
camouflage the watery assault.
Like the Belgrano a sneak attack.
‘It’s So Un- English.’
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Now was the time for the stiff upper lip,
and encouragement for the ones
still to go over.
Rally your troops,
urge on the foreign mercenary
who sullenly strolls up, obviously uninterested.
Gee him on god-dammit.
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But no, the Captain weeps,
in a self indulgent sob in
as the mercenary misfires
and as the victors rejoice
the crying continues,
now in the arms
of his dole bound manager.
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“I’m now redeemed” he declares
within a week
to the adoring masses
as he scores against the passive yanks.
Soon there will be commercials
of him crying, missing and slipping.
God how we love our losers.
‘It’s So English.’
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But will there be one of the fountain
that projected from his mouth
on that soaking night in Moscow.
I don’t think so.
“That’s not spittle, it’s rain”
cry his defenders.
“Only Johnny Foreigner would do something so vile,
and he is the England captain.
It would be so un English of him.”
So Un- English.