We now assume a playing field
with level ground and unconcealed
goals and borders, with a ref
who isn’t on the take, or deaf.
But no such luck. The same old fix
against the rednecks from the sticks
still operates behind the bleachers,
admin halls, impassive features,
with club ties hidden under sweaters
so no one really knows one’s “betters”
and cannot know the game’s been thrown,
but thinks it’s down to skill alone.
“Fragment from an American Folk Song”
You’re drunk and you’re bored and you’re slouching beneath
an unwatched TV while that twat Toby Keith
sings on the jukebox. It beggars belief,
but Saddam’s “at the top of his list.”
It goes on like this until late in the night.
You can say what you think, but it might mean a fight,
so you fondle your beer with your mouth closed up tight,
but your free hand closed up in a fist.