We’re nil nil
when the sky
gets ink. Our
bets are not
held. The red
tops are not
read. And the
wind, the wet,
hits the tin
roof: dot dot
dash dot – it’s
code for… not
much. The ref
says: “Hey, any
more and you
walk.” “Won the
ball, ref,” Nad
says, but he’s
lost his rag,
adds: “You tit!”
Nad’s big gob.
Then, the red
card, the hot
bath. Ten men.
They “bye bye
baby” him off.
