They sport in a gallery, the dark glasses
On pretty noses, bare shoulders sport red
A gaggle of market men go wild with joy
At the pantomimes of other people’s play
In giant projectors with phantom players
Coming from a world’s end with red balls.
If they run you run and when they squirm
In their pants, in your living room’s corner
You squirm in your pants, red and dead.
The argument goes on endlessly in halls
In grounds like a salivary thread flowing
From silky spider-work in home corners.
In argument we conquer the world in cup.