Let's forget, for a minute, those who play you for sport.
Let's also forget those whom you yanked from the garbage and placed on a throne

for all to worship.
Today we focus on the scum of the scum.

Under the bottom, run over by life.

Those who don't work. Those who don't read.
Those who live in a neighborhood of misery: whose houses are held up,

not by bricks, but by tape.
Those who cough, beg, cry, rob, kill.
Those who move a lady to clench her child's hand in the street, who move a man

to hide his watch.
Those who have no voice.
Those who don't exist.

We focus on those who suffocate under an atmosphere of desperation.

For long, they searched for release
but
leaders wouldn't give it,
education would give it but wasn't around,
charities were overseas,
communism promised it but didn't deliver,
narcotics offered counterfeits,
crime obliterated it,
and
God asked for an extension.

Then appeared you,
Futbol,
naked and compassionate,
proclaiming,
People in need, bring only your legs and your creativity!

From the waste around them, they built their release.
A ragged ball. Garbage goals.
Laughter and dancing and oles! and ooohs! and ahhhs! resonated
and those who didn't know what their next meal was gonna be
forgot about their hunger.

The World was balanced, the titles dissipated into a spiral of superfluity and along with them all the unnecessary things only the real essence of justice remained no

influences no boss no sir no formality just touches and volleys and rainbows

and strikes defined who you were and everyone was someone for a couple

seconds at a time.

And the town drunk, the swine, the scum, paraded home a hero
followed by the ardent chant of sirens and blowhorns,
showered in dusty confetti,
retiring for the night
into his cardboard
palace.