Reaper 129 and France 0

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Apostles of Belenus signatured tall,
Eye-filling on European green lands;
Lamenting today,
Hunched back;
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,
Nailed coffins;
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!

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