Gods Of The Field

We’ve been here before: a pregnant state
Heavy with the fug of tribal weight
The midst of attack amid sanguine cry
Carried on wind with lust to die

Marched to battle like castrati soldiers
Carrying the team on castrati shoulders
Wet from the clash, with booze and juice
We cry and scream diffuse abuse

Screaming the team to the other’s box
Baying for players to pull up their socks
Till, when battle ends we decamp to homes
Defeat or glory in our warrior bones

Thus annals writ once in feuding fields
With bloodied swords and beaten shields
Now scribed for men and footed ball
In bloodless war and endless thrall.

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