All that effort and not one goal, we lost,
lost badly, for ninety minutes we played,
lost by four goals, the other team played well.
That we get paid to play comes at a cost,
honor on the pitch can make some queasy,
ankles sprained, collisions, tumbles displayed
there on TV, owners buy and sell
each player for a trade, we are cattle,
for this show we get paid, win or lose, see,
fight another day, take a shower, go home,
outscored on the pitch, let it go, live free,
run laps, train hard, life under the blue dome,
tragically, for us is never easy.
Arguments over pay, quite the battle,
nobody minds the superstars, but fans,
decidedly, our supporters make plans.
Notwithstanding, we get paid, make the grade,
only God decides if we get to play,
to play professional soccer, fútbol.
One goal can decide a match, the worst fade
non-existent into a past unknown,
essentially forgotten, fade to gray.
Greatness shines in the spotlight, por un gol,
often, we hold heroes in high esteem,
architects of the beautiful game, grown
limber with the bicycle kick whose fame,
world renowned, travels in circles, reports
elegant as the game itself, no shame
letting loose on the page, let there be snorts
of appreciation, these are the cream,
suffering hard childhoods, their love is great,
to speak of Pelé, O Rei, witness fate.
No comments:
Post a Comment