You're sorrowed for not seeing
your bottom-placed team -
to a man, a Crow -
win its second game in a row,
after 13 pathetic losses.
The winning score of 8.11 -
8 times 6 plus 11 times 1 -
somewhat eases your woe:
many of those 1s
would have been shanked 6es;
you know
you would have been boiling over
for a good part of the show.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem