It’s almost medieval, this thrust and thwack
It’s a denatured form of war
This trial of strength – defence, attack
No one dies. Instead, there’s a score
For honour, they disguise their pain
Their favours and colours on show
The bloodless knights of Serbia and Spain
Novak and Rafael – in stereo
The Serb’s the hero of the tournament
Behind his smile, is what all knight’s must know
That, soon, the prize money will be spent
The cup will fade, his lady’s look will go
Human memory is all too short
Wars are soon forgotten, so is sport
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