knees blooded & black with clarts: moist
troops in the reek of liniment & smoke:
the gaffa is steaming, hoofing the kit-bag,
eyes shooting daggers at les, the keeper.
four whole minutes of dry-mouth silence,
then tommy explodes: absolute shite!
every last one of you is playing like a turd!
& you les! you’re playing worse than shite!
& us, just slouched, like thirsty leaves,
like heavy corn glimpsing the scythe.