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The plinth held what everyone desired
Dignitaries sat by with smiles that were painted
Observing curious fun that couldn’t be tainted
By scandal as they reach to what they aspired.
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A nod and a handshake makes it so formal
Then the captain beaming grabs hold of the cup
Across the land the fans cheer as victory they sup
The eleven to remember whose lives wouldn’t be normal.
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Each given a medal which they grasp tightly
A symbol of all the hard work and success
It sparkles in their hand and everthing means less
To this moment which can be relived nightly.
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But thirty years later the mood decides to change
In the auction room the win is heaped with proclaims
The symbol is gone but the memory remains
And that’s all that is needed, is that really so strange?