The life of a sporting widow
Doesn’t really leave much to show
For money and hours expended on match days
And the coming home pissed.
You behave like a sh*t when you’re drunk:
A total loss of consonants
And the aura of a skunk.
Your mouth falls from its runners
Making rambling unpleasant remarks
As though this is the only state
In which you can leave a mark.
I’m glad you had things to celebrate,
That you had a good time at the game,
Though the fracture in basic relations
Leaves little behind but blame.
While you may say I spoil your fun
With my general lack of interest
Perhaps you might see things differently
When face to face
With your hung-over mess…
*Post-match analysis from a household near you…