Football Poets

World Cup 2006 Day Twenty Three

¶ 1 Leave a comment on verse 1 0 Portugal 0 England 0 (3-1 pens)

¶ 2 Leave a comment on verse 2 0 We’d seen the mangey chimpanzees,
The wallabies and pumas,
We’d fed the hippo by degrees
With overripe satsumas.
Giraffes and seals, we’d seen them all,
And now the zoo was closing,
But then my son espied a stall
Wherein some beast was dozing.
“What is it, Dad?” he cried out loud,
His little finger pointing.
The beast stood up, above the crowd
though somewhat disappointing.

¶ 3 Leave a comment on verse 3 0 It had a turnip for a head,
Which seemed a mite amusing,
And with the hand of God, it fed
On titbits of its choosing.
While supine on the floor, it kicked
Its right leg with ill-feeling,
For, like a Swiss ref, it seemed strict
And visually unappealing.
It sported odd receding hair
And needed no relaxant
And when it spoke, it spoke with care,
Complete with Swedish accent.

¶ 4 Leave a comment on verse 4 0 “A common sight in Engerland,”
I read with curiosity.
“The scapegoat’s resolutely panned
And hunted with ferocity.
Most widely seen around July
Whene’er the year is even,
In different forms, you’ll hear it cry
Self-pitying and grievin’.
The scapegoat lives its life alone
Inured to life’s surprises.
And studies of the beast have shown
It ‘s found in different guises.”
First a turnip, then a Swede,
A beast from Argentina,
Placed upon this earth to feed
The scavenging hyena.”

¶ 5 Leave a comment on verse 5 0 And, watching this chameleon,
A sudden mist descended.
A sudden stamp and it was gone,
Unloved and undefended.

¶ 6 Leave a comment on verse 6 0 Brazil 0 France 1

¶ 7 Leave a comment on verse 7 0 “We deserved our fate
In ninety eight,
We were not at the races.
Zidane, Petit,
Ensured that we
Were buried without traces.
Our drab display
On that dark day,
Meant we were drubbed three nil –
Time for revenge!”
Cried the boys from Brazil.

¶ 8 Leave a comment on verse 8 0 And so it seemed
Just as they’d dreamed,
A chance to drown the past.
No longer bold,
The French were old
And fading very fast.
Domenech’s
Arthritic trek
Was struggling on the hill.
“Victory is ours!”
Cried the boys from Brazil.

¶ 9 Leave a comment on verse 9 0 But, old and tired,
The French, inspired,
Refused to play their part.
Revitalised,
They scarce disguised
The hunger in their heart.
With yells and whoops,
The ageing troops
Went boldly for the kill.
“It’s not in the script!”
Cried the boys from Brazil.

¶ 10 Leave a comment on verse 10 0 Shocked and stunned,
Outfought, outgunned,
Brazil could not reply.
Melancholy,
Henri’s volley
Made them want to cry.
Zidane seemed more
Like twenty four,
Infused with iron will.
“Qu’est-ce que c’est ça?”
Cried the boys from Brazil.

¶ 11 Leave a comment on verse 11 0 Across the park,
The truth was stark,
Brazil could not compete.
The Marsellaise
Rang out in praise
And drowned the samba beat.
The French were back
On World Cup track,
The whistle sounded shrill.
“Madame Guillotine?”
Cried the boys from Brazil.

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