Woeful Wanderers, wish for Beowulf
¶ 1
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breakers smash, amidst the surf
waves crash and malcontents curse
we watch, warriors of the turf
far removed, from rivals in verse
churning shingle, as fans mingle
shifting sands, fluctuating form, but still there’s such a tingle
Old Gold shirts, housing heavy hearts
travel shorewards, in their legions
fuelled by hope and a belief that counterparts
could yet suffer, in these coastal regions
brave men board, their mode of transport
examine their listed army
appraise their beleagured leader, then with many a consort
foolishly debate, that which drives them barmy
away with a will, a wish for a win
triumphant in their travels?
fleet foam flicks, waves roll in (if only the goals would)
Wolves at the door, as the tension unravels …
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