Feel for us! Mourn with us! Weep, shed bitter tears. So close. Within our grasp, and we allowed it to slip away. If only I were a poet, I would be able to express the depth of our pain, so that others would be able understand. (Not bothering with Americans, of course. Such matters are beyond the grasp of their attention span.)
Two runs! Two measly little runs. A statistical insignificance, a nothingness. 0.16% of all runs scored. Yet they make all the difference between darkness and light.
And the gall of the conquerors, to hold our shattered bodies up in triumph and claim victory. Dancing down the streets, blood dripping from their savage hands on their way to celebrations where they imbibe copious amount of what they call beer and regale each other with tales of their personal role in this infamy! As if anything other than blind chance, and our own sins, had allowed such a thing to happen.
My Poem
Merit to them ... never!!
Shame on us ... forever (or at least until the next test, when we'll wallop them good!).
