There’ll be bawling, caterwauling,
When the striker is sent sprawling,
Each tackle will be analysed to death.
Much hair-tearing, constant swearing
And ridiculous hat-wearing,
More passion than the third act of Macbeth.
There’ll be crying, rueful sighing,
Fervent dreams of qualifying,
Rhetoric a-plenty from the panellists.
There’ll be drama, instant karma,
Prayers to Allah and to Brahma
And total contradiction from the analysts.
There’ll be betting on goal-getting,
A million little hands will fill in charts.
With time nearing, there’ll be cheering
Or great hopes fast disappearing,
As horses trundle sadly after carts.
Is Maradonna really gonna
Leave the tournament with honour?
Tears of disappointment, tears of mirth,
Nation battling against nation –
Roll up for the greatest show on earth!
Friends, farewell. I go now to a bettr place in front of the telly. Back in a month.