Sonnet 132

As hierophants before the ark, enrapt,
we’re gazing up at corner-mounted screen,
whereon the scarlet Scousers have just crapped
all over Spurs. The turf’s psychotic green.
Here Africans, clothed by their borrowed tribes,
rushed forth and chased the sphere of bladdered gas,
and now from plastic bottles do imbibe
electrolytes. The interview is crass,
posing again the same banality.
I see the eyes roll back inside the head,
not even the pretence of listening.
Of mercenaries the best qualities
are seldom strained, and in him are stone dead,
despite the cash spent on him glistening.