Too soon

Like funeral clothes discarded

This crimson red misery

Stained with tears and fears of a faltering hope.

Eleven atheletes in disarray

Pacing up and down, back and forth

Kicking and flicking

To patch together a win

Perhaps a point.

Red-faced over one who has ears only

For Gallic style and ideals

For the beautiful game

That the feet and hearts of boys

From many nations

Cannot carry nor hoist

With honours

For the season ends too soon

Too soon.

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