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