What We Have We Hold
Look, it isn't always fine,
as seconds tick towards full time,
once a team’s been molded,
and sculpted into formation,
but she’s well on top of it.
Hooks a finger and her rallying cry
at his occasional shanked balls
fired into the air, ‘out’, she cries,
and won’t subscribe to do or die.
Fall quickly back in catenaccio,
to cool hot heads then softly blow
into whistle, rests to take on fluid.
A strategic withdrawal, to assess
positions, tests her waters,
dips toe, which ways work best?
Examine close the state of play
as she’s looking under the hood,
to change tactics with expert eyes.
Shoots victory streamers, they fly
over in a sticky ticker tape parade.
Blow up, come down the tunnel
for a final bow and drum roll:
because what we have we hold.
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