It is a low church,
without sober prayer,
rough years, sixty-plus,
blinded Sky-high stare:
Unaltered transfix,
upon sports, by God,
matched-crucifixion,
across the green sod.
They tip their flat pints,
on last sure-winners,
each sup a delay,
to home-cooked dinners:
Stood tall-table straight,
with concentric rings,
beer becomes central,
at last order’s rings.
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