The tournament returns, a cyclical curse,
A national habit, for better or worse.
The calendar marks it, the schedule is set,
To summon the familiar, the cold, sweating fret.
I’m strapping in now for the quadrennial ride,
With hope as my compass and nerves as my guide.
I’m ready for glory, for tears in the rain,
For that sharp, aching thrill of the familiar pain.
The pundits are primed with their tactical charts,
To dissect every movement and break all our hearts.
We’ll debate every sub, every questionable call,
As we cling to the hope of the flight of the ball.
Then the climax arrives, as it always must do,
When the spot-kick looms large and the stadium’s blue.
The penalty anxiety? A spiritual test,
While the ghosts of the past put our pulse to the rest.
Yet through the despair and the inevitable sigh,
Beneath a grey, hopeful, English-summer sky,
We’ll turn up the volume, let the speakers distort,
As Three Lions find home in a chart-topping sort.
So pour me a pint, let the madness begin,
I’m ready to lose—but, God, I want to win.
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