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So, in the end, they fell without a fight.
Not one true effort, not one shot in sight.
Just noise and fury, chest-beating and show,
Yet nowhere left for football’s craft to go.
They chased the referee more than the ball,
Mistook dark arts for greatness after all.
For every tumble, every feigned despair,
The game itself was left a little poorer there.
And when the whistle drew the curtain closed,
There was no glory in the path they chose.
For medals tarnish, scorelines fade away,
But character is measured every day.
So home they go, defeated in the end -
Without the pride that should a champion attend.
For victory borrowed through deception’s guise
Wins trophies, perhaps… but never wins the wise.
Tonight the football world breathes easier still.
Not out of malice, but because, at last,
The spirit of the game outlived the spectacle.
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