Apostles of Belenus signatured tall,
Eye-filling on European green lands;
Yet again on another doomed foreplay.
This end-game whistled friendlier this time,
As life dribbled few Zinedines’ skills;
Near Stade De’ France,
Dodged by vested Tarantulas;
Herein a cannibalistic love affair.
Tolls further the Reaper,
Flying bullets this time;
Triggering fingers fire fries,
In pastas and wine,
Whilst poor eaglets chewed metal;
Therein a Californian Hotel divine.
Lost 129 and,
Beyond the line;
Still the game is on,
Beware, it restarts anywhere; anytime.
And blackish Sheep sublimes,
Unrolling tear ups worldwide;
Lip-locking moist hearts,
To kiss French,
Wish inked a lie; Goddamn!