It's the beginning of yet another season,
And the football supporters are out on the streets
In their droves. Clearly, sartorial splendour
Is not their thing. They proudly wear their branded shirts
With beer bellies poking out. They're spectators
With regard to their own lives. The sport is perhaps
One great object for their huge appetites. O they
Consume all the expensive paraphernalia.
They purchase the latest strips with superstars'names
Emblazoned on their backs: courtesy of sweatshops.
I could refer to this phenomenon as false
Consciousness, but I'm afraid of their aggression.
They are very well versed in arcane, sporting facts.
Rich or poor, they travel to watch their prized teams
All over the globe. While tellingly the players,
From the big clubs they worship, are worth millions!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem