Playwerk

In your fresh air ideology of winning,
You are carrying the briefcase of losing.
The field is open, your time is up.

Floodlights on galaxies of failures,
Playbooks of deals to be done wrong.
The field is open, your time is up.

Every start false, every tackle a heartbreaker;
Pitch and roll shipwreck of selling souls.
The field is open, your time is up.

Crashspearjack into a concussive oblivion,
If only the light touch was the only touch.
The field is open, your time is up.

Empty horizontal caryatid in brown serge kit,
You’d be happy with a golden quarter.
The field is open, your time is up.

Under the Tuesday Night Lights,
Because of course you’d turn up
To a postponement of pleasure.
The field is open, your time is up.