The dismal situation waste and wild,
An Estádio Mineirão horrible, on all sides round
As one great furnace flamed, yet from those flames
No light, but rather darkness visible
And Brazilian children crying, David Luiz, too. Risible.
Seven goals, by Germans,
Thomas Muller, Miroslav Klose, two by Toni Kroos,
Sami Khedira, Andre Schurrle twice.
Served only to discover sights of woe,
Our TV director panning round
No sexist female shots could be found,
But crying women and children, Titanical
As rich Allemanges man the lifeboats full.
Regions of sorrow, doleful shades, where peace
And rest can never dwell, hope never comes
Even after Oscar scored, no one cared
Save Neuer, screaming
at Mezut Ozil; but torture without end
Still urges, and a fiery deluge of goals, fed
With ever-burning sulphur unconsumed:
The smell of Brazilian soccer stinking
And Hulk? What was Scolari thinking?
Such place eternal justice had prepared
For that ignominious coach, here his prison ordained:
A soccer stadium, his nation's team shamed.
In utter darkness, and their portion set
As far removed from God and light of Heaven
To play at home! To let in seven!
How far, how far, how far, how far,
From Sunday's final at the Maracana.
(As for Ronaldo, Pele, Zico, Socrates.
They join Brazil down on its knees.)
What though the field be lost?
All is not lost; (yes it is, my camarada).
You kicked the Colombians, who kicked you back
A Waterloo. A sunk Armada.
Breaking the back of blonde-tipped Neymar
And your captain got a stupid yeller card,
And you lost the unconquerable will.
The Germans brought to mind Yokohama
The 2002 final, "Ronaldorama!"
And made a study of revenge, efficient hate,
And courage never to submit or yield:
Though truth be told there was not a tackle
That did not go unmade.
After twenty nine minutes it was fully five---
Should you bow and sue for grace
With suppliant knee, and deifie Low's power,
Who urged the terror of this team so late
Gainst scribes in German newspapers
Who doubted his Empire? (That were a Low blow indeed.)
That were an ignominy and shame beneath
This downfall; though football fans
Remembered dives and missed passes
Hulk's inability, Fred's impassive face
Against Croatia. And Jo. Let's not forget Jo.
Oh! Today they picked little Bertrand
Hardly a terrier, though, not exactly Russell.
And Will. I. An. remained on the bench
Until the score ran upwards t'wards a tenth.
Since by Fate the strength of teams
Can be masked by loyal fans and screams
Yet this Empyreal German masterclass did not fail,
And aghast at experience of this great event
We look ahead to tomorrow' game:
The Dutch are not worse, in foresight much advanced,
The Argentines have Messi, though they have no Angel
Upon these dreams our World Cup hopes do dwell.
But which of these, when faced with the Deutsche,
Should neutrals cheer for? What a choice!
We may with more successful hope they resolve
To wage by force or else eternal war
On Lahm's intelligence, Mueller's guile
Put a foot in on Schweinsteiger once in a while.
Give Hoewedes a shove, Boateng a pummel,
Could someone nutmeg big Mats Hummels?
Irreconcilable, though, that Brazilian team
They ran around, their asses reamed
And the grand foe, the Germans, who never lose
(Can Man U please buy Toni Kroos?)
Who now triumphs, and in th' excess of joy
Sole reigning holds the Tyranny of Heav'n.
Though their fans must stay seated, while Brazilians bolt
Their sambas turned to street revolt."
So spake th' Apostate Angel, Ian Darke,
Incredulous, and turned to Macca,
Who vaunting aloud, in Scouse, began:
"The Brazilian players, to a man
I cannot praise a single one."
And racked with deep Liverpudlian despair
"You came to play the Germans, but you were not there!"
And saying good night to the Horizonte sun,
Darke spake: "That's all from us. Germany 7. Brazil 1."