We’ll patch up some half-baked side
and impose upon bemused strangers
the delusion of our national pride.
As if in some latter-day crusade
to shore up our failed imperium
we’ll hitch up our beer bellies and tattoos
and mount a futile campaign.
We never win. We know we’ll lose.
With our polite lies and cucumbers
we say that winning does not count
when the game goes to penalties
But we are only lying to ourselves.
We’ll watch our dream soar over the bar.
It’s losing that shows us who we are.
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