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I remember, when I was nearly 10,
& Dad back then,
drove a Ford Cortina
and we were @ War with Argentina
and the whole country needed cheering up.
It was just as well it was time for a world Cup.
Which eventually went to the Paulo Rossi posse,
who no doubt celebrated by raucously singing,’ Viva Espana’
whilst probably downing loads of Cianti & plates of lasagne.
But in ’82 it was Brazil who made me see
how beautiful a thing that football could be.
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I remember the game against Scotland, a team that were keen to follow their dream & make their mark.
They obviously hadn’t seen the Brazillian spaceship in the carpark.
And the ‘tartan army’ were dreamlng, the whole place must have gone up like a sauna,
when David Neary sent a screamer into the top corner,
But Brazil didn’t find it remotely scarey, it just seemed to mildly irritate them a little bit.
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And so they rallied & very soon one-nil became 4-1
Scotland were like the moon usurped by the sun.
They couldn’t take anymore,
they were on the floor.
This was surely the football that God might play,
on the eighth day,
Scotland were just blown away
with no dribble too flirtatious,
no free kick too audacious
from the likes of Zico, Eder and Socrates (the commander-in-chief). They started a hurricane as the World shook their heads in total disbelief.