He whose tongue would not know wine,
Who would sloth in a hotel chamber
With wife and television,
Whilst fellow men made merry,
Toasting to good life and hard rugby.
He who would prey others to bed,
Tearing the entrails of our celebration
For the sake of his own precious slumber.
Whilst humble kyle, drunk and disorderly,
Had not a wink since two nights before.
He who would forfeit the first night
Of the biggest weekend
In our little rugby world
To sloth with his wife.
May he forever be:
“Person the poem is about”
This article appears in Mar 13-19, 2008.
>pfft< This is why jocks shouldn't write poetry. It doesn't even rhyme. Sheesh.