Argentina

Hand of God

We cried blue murder at the time.
It was a crime against humanity,
Not an act of spontaneity
From the digits of a deity.

Still, the next week, each lunchtime,
We were all doing it.
Any aerial challenge became
An opportunity for divine intervention,
With an asphalt Ascension
Into a playground pantheon
Of class-war champions
Beckoning for anyone who could
Pull off a palm of providence
With confidence.

And although our clumsy
Sleights of hand were always exposed,
Like a bungled party trick,
It didn’t stop us from trying
To create artistry out of artifice.

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Grilled Panini

After a bottle of gin
And a bottle of rum
You put my World Cup 78 album
Under the grill
And did it ill
Before passarelling out
On the carpet.

Both the Argentine squad section
And you
Were beyond redemption.
(You: non compos mentis.
Me: sine Mario Kempes)

Never mix liquors
And football stickers.

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