Season To Forget

                                         Season To Forget

You sit silent in the stadium,
you suffer in your seat.
The game is a test of tedium,
your team heads for defeat.
Now the referee blows his whistle,
awards a penalty.
Well deserved, but for the other side,
fair minded, you agree.
Watch the Spanish striker strike the ball,
you feel it hit the net,
upset it gives reason for this to be
a season to forget.

It is time to leave the stadium,
your side has lost one nil.
Away fans act high on helium,
do all to break your will.
Now the road home never seemed so long,
the sky looks far too wide.
You say your team still played with passion,
the pundits say for pride.
Some speak of a relegation fight,
it can’t be that, not yet.
Seems somehow treason to think this will be
a season to forget.

Woolly mammoth in Siberia,
found frozen hard in ice,
you read about in your newspaper,
you wonder at what price,
if scientists clone a race of them
to alter history,
while the elephants of Africa
are poached for ivory.
Football, after all, is just a sport,
the only one you get,
brings cohesion even if it may be
a season to forget.

Spring was suitably green and tender,
a happy tale was told.
Summer glowed sunshine more than thunder,
autumn was not quite gold.
Now the referee blows his whistle,
your winter to begin,
you must find the flint to flick a fire,
to keep you warm within.
You hear others say that they have led
a lifetime to regret,
which gives reason for this not to be
a season to forget.

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