This post comes like a bolt from the blue (or from the red, depending on your preference), having absolutely nothing to do travel, photography, Silk Roads or night trains. Just four little quatrains in honour (or in mocking) of tonight’s Manchester Derby. Kick those balls!
A devil is rampant in old Pictish field,
His fire imperiled by water-borne brother
Whose left-handed arrows fall only to vapour.
These brothers will play, but not well.
United! Etihad! They both will exclaim it –
A farce! They’re each closer to kings across oceans
Who reap the world’s gold, and indulge the small notions
Of soldiers who quarrel and blame.
The Flower of Springtime, who sprouts in the shade,
The Great One’s Pretender, who’s corked up his whine.
The Silvery Rascol, who’s regained his shine
(The Mohican, who’s gone home, well paid).
So, in the inn, look skyward, if the battle entices,
Though sweeter amusements avail themselves here.
Three jars, or four, and the Moon sheds a tear –
It all ends in crisis (again).