Apologies to Wordsworth

Football: This Sport is Too Much With Us
(With Apologies to Wordsworth)
 
This sport is too much with us; day and night,
Cheering and moaning, we cater to the craze:  
Little we see but plays and then replays;
We have given our minds away to brutes’ delight!
Our science pimps for sports by satellite
To brings us oafish heirs of Woody Hayes,
Colliding flesh, announcers’ frantic brays;
For this we lose our dreams, our wives, our sight.
 
We gawk for naught - Great God! —I’d rather be          
A child in Timbuktu, thus unaware                                
Of silly o’s and x’s  strategy,                                            
Of  beefy clowns with no brain cells to spare,
Matriculants in sweat and deviltry                                      
And each behemoth now a millionaire.
 
  Published in Aethlon, p. 36, Spring Issue, 1997

(1997)

Sonnet satirical

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