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Nets strung loosely, sqaure posts
Like at Hampden. No Roar here though.
Just the odd exclamation from a trail
Of onlookers – as they roundly
Barrack the linesman and the referee.
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The sky, the scenery, the surrounds
All a grey morass. Colour confined
To red and blue jerseys, flitting angrily
Around the object of desire as it balloons
And bounces, as remote as the sun.
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Figures in a Lowry landscape, attrition
Across the greasy ground. Which gets
Greasier as rain falls, relentless, hard, wet.
No goals, no glory – only graft to be gained.
The gluepot wins out. A stalemate of sorts.