Having missed a score of chances,
the goal the scorer thought he’d scored
was scratched off the scoresheet for offside,
so the scoreline remained scoreless.
A win would have secured the club-
their name inscribed on the cup.
Instead, they had a score to settle
with the referee, who manifestly
had not scored for seasons.
As if to underscore the sore
feelings (the goal was a scorcher)
the forward fuelled the discord
by his scurrilous retorts to the linesman-
his scorching invective pouring scorn
on the poor man’s bloodline.
Perilously close to physical assault,
Security provided his sour encore-
he was summarily escorted from the pitch.
His manager’s shrug offered little succour-
he’d been in the game long enough
to known the score.