It Came Home

Droplets of sweat absorbed by a sodden shirt,

Not evaporating in the dry pressing heat,

The light scorches everything it lays it’s gaze on,

In the arid world of a final penalty defeat.

Millions of burning eyes turning away at once,

Moistened with a waterfall of tears flowing,

The salty taste of each missed opportunity past,

Washed down by dregs necked before going.

Hundreds of miles away from pure jubilation,

But separated from it by a couple of inches,

A small slip on a water slicked blade of grass,

While waiting to see if the keeper flinches.

The net doesn’t bulge with the satisfying cheer,

It stops short with that very familiar groan,

Time stands still in the whole nations disbelief,

But in the centre, one man stands alone.

From the country’s hero to the target in a kick,

The inexcusable attacks through netted veil,

Cowardly insults by nameless hooligans pour in,

For a roaring lion  who everyone should hail.

A pride of lionhearted men who didn’t lose,

In a tournament of Europe’s footballing cream.  

Making every English fan stand up and smile,

We all should salute our great England team.

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