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My dad, who lives in Cape Town, was inspired by the local World Cup tournament to write this poem. It's one of many he has at his poetry group's blog, Pleached Poetry.

The World Cup by Michael Keeling

There is a poetry in soccer,
when played at its finest,
that begs forgiveness
for professional cynicism.

Of all games
it is best understood;
played with minimum equipment;
a sport made for the underprivileged.

Soccer is now a business.
There is little sport left.
An association
turned corporation.

It has become
the showplace
of cheating;
the portrayal
of snide behaviour.

Here, in South Africa,
where a tin can
is kicked between
goal posts
of sticks or stones
and kids shout Bafana Bafana,
has not enough damage been done?

Should not their idols
on the field of fame,
remember their small beginnings,
and, by example,
show how to play the game?

I like it a lot!