the world cup
british soccer hooligans take the national rail
and are drunk on beer before noon
case upon case of foster’s pounders
that they’re tossing around fuzzy seats like lawn darts
as they shout about players from the past
and chant team songs in my ear
while i’m trying to read the sea-wolf by jack london
i can’t even drown them out with my headphones
can hear their r&b music above the david bowie
watch helplessly as they play computer games
on their cell phones and then try to rip apart
the national rail seats when they lose
and these are the old fans, the geezers
gray-haired, fifty year-old men built like mountains
with stacks of empties crushed in front of them
or rolling on the floor of the train
old bastards on a gent’s weekend away from their wives
bitching about their women
bitch about each other’s women
threatening to smash skulls when they get to liverpool
all over a soccer match
the younger ones are two cars up
blasting music from five different smart phones
terrorizing the tourists and their girlfriends
drunk dancing in the small aisles and saying
‘scuse me, mate, when they bump into me
like they’re telling me to watch it next time i need to piss
i wonder what these guys would think of american soccer fans
because american soccer fans are kind of effete
thin, wispy men and women
looking for yet another excuse to wear scarves
i was on a train packed with american soccer fans once
they were all drinking iced coffee and playing on facebook
you could hear a pin drop
while one of these blokes on this death ride
screams bloody murder over a goal from six years ago
and looks primed to put a pin through his best friend’s eye
if it’s even suggested that the foster’s might run out
i’d love to see american soccer fans mix with this breed
place an easy bet on who’d come off of this train alive
film it for posterity and my own amusement
and watch it on the television over and over this summer
call it the world cup.
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