Here, a handful of hysterical men
Seeming to run aimless for endless hours
In a display of sweat-soaked endeavours,
The men that ah together only can.
Now fighting longer tenure of the ball,
Well past the goal-line thence in testing time,
Grit and guts, gumption getting mixed with grime,
O to hold whole beholding world in thrall.
This, whilst million squatters on cushioned chairs,
Millions of crazy, stiffly lazy bones
Called couch potatoes all with expert airs,
Sit immobile, limp like lifeless mile-stones,
Who, can well do with their own grit and gall,
But would much rather cheer than chase the ball.
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Sonnets | 02.06.04 |