I woke up feeling brilliant
My country is embarrassing
I don't wanna speak portuguese
I wanna paint my body
And throw myself into things

The white walls of the museums
I had never visited
Invite me to show my useless
And pointless opinions

I feel like capturing the colors
Capturing tones and movements
Look inside my eyes and tell me
Something I haven't felt yet

It grips me everytime
Everytime I see them play
22 of them, on the field
Running, tripping, sweating
They move, they pass, they jump
They fall, they stand, they hook
And suddenly it's clear to me
Its not just bout scores and stats and stuff
Its about a flawless play
Its not a matter of two opponents
Its played by several thousands
Laughing, cheering, grieving, praying
You won't see anywhere else
Love so pure, colours so bright
Its grips my everything
Everytime I see them play
My beautiful game

Today it starts,
A game of two halves.
Shame no one told us.

They will play,
We will watch
With one eye half shut

They will talk,
Another good game.
But fail like 1970,
To claim a prize,
We think of our own.

I was two the only time,
We raised a trophy,
That my father saw,
Being held aloft in ’66.

We claim our three lions roar,
Only they whimper out of tournaments,
With nothing, but a story of penalties,
And another cross bar denying.

So I say what will be different,
This four year cycle?
I know that the pain will be the same,
Angry words chanted, and dreams shattered

But then there is always
A spark of hope…

Or the next time.

©Nick Strong

I shot up in 70's/ 80's England
For sale, there really was only one dream
It was sold to us through Thatcher
Star wars, Magnum P.I. and The A.team.

Now that dream is old and dusty
And the world looks for something new
Will it come from India, China, Brazil
Or will it come from the shaky E.U.

Or will, as I hope, there be choice
For my daughter and her 4 year old clique
Will she choose the American dream
Or will she dismiss it as a kitsch antique.