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Sarriball Comfort

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(sorry Mr. Hopkins)

Manchester City v Chelsea FC - Premier League Photo by Laurence Griffiths/Getty Images

Not, I’ll not, Sarriball comfort, False Hope, not feast on thee;
Not lift — though decorum demands — your frowning head to anoint,
Regista, though weary, defend I can no more. Appoint;
Cig-crowned, philosopher, can not choose not to be.
But ah, but O thou terrible, why wouldst thou inflict on me
His bludgeonball right foot slip? lay a perishpass unto me? point
Dropped darksome devouring, plummet into Europa? and disjoint,
O splayed defence, flayed defence; Kepa frantic to avoid and flee?

Why? That our net might tear; opponents dare, cheer and clear.
Nay in all that toil, that coil, since seems we last held line,
Press rather, my heart lo! False strength, temptress, diaphanous, jeer.
Jeer whom though? The team slay-slicing through midfield, malign
Or we that fight them? O which one? each one? This night, this year
Past hope, we suppliant implore (Roman!), hasten with dreadsack sign.