The World Cup.
Whilst wars wreak havoc,
Upon this wretched world,
Gorging upon atrocities,
You watch groups of grown men,
Kick a bag of air for 90 minutes,
And define your identity,
In relation to its utter inanity.
A planet of pathetic drones,
Conditioned to constantly consume,
Wearing nylon football shirts,
Made in sweat shops by children,
Or in the gulags of red china,
Forgotten by fools who crave,
The dull opiate of its propaganda.