flicking through

They lie there as if in state,
Green boxes transformed into tombs,
A taphephobiast’s fearful fate
A living nightmare looms.
A grave situation indeed.

Inside these curious coffins,
Your hymns
Will not stir the fallen
Nor mend their
Shattered, scattered
l i m b s.

All over the country,
In all of the attics,
Lie these atrocities
Of athletics, rovers
And cities fanatics.

Cup dreams of childhood
Gather dust
For the loft now holds
Only atrophy
When once a trophy
Was held aloft.

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