Chris Jibero


A Do-Or-Die

Not he to lose a match
Not he on this turf
Weighted in his favour
Wherein his fanatical fans
Are his to rent to cheer
For it is a do-or-die

Not he to lose a match
Wherein his opponents are his
To choose
Preferring those he has maimed
For it is a do-or-die

Not he to lose a match
Wherein the referee with his
Assistants is his to hire
And fire
And the yellow and red cards
The piper's to flaunt and flash
As his whim dictates
To massage the jagged cocky ego
Of the playing piper's picky payer
For it is a do-or-die
Not he to lose a match
Wherein the rules and regulations
Are his to influence
From the sidelines
Even in the middle of a game
For it is a do-or-die

Not he to lose a match
Wherein his goalpost can be shrunk
At will to frustrate his opponents
And make them wail like babies
Whose mothers' overgrazed breasts
Bear milk no more
For it is a do-or-die

Not he to lose a match
Wherein he, a skillful captain,
Leading a rag-tag team, uses
An unholy hand of a junkie god
To score a winning goal
Because foul is fair
That ends well in his favour
For it is a do-or-die

Not he to lose a match
Wherein the match commissioner
Is his regular booze partner
Whose match report is prepared
With a lot of his input
Over conquered beer bottles
And steamy pepper soup plates
At Madam Jolly-Jolly's roadside
Joint where her ever-ready
Mushroom maids run their hungry
Hands over his hoary hair because
His lady-friendly provocative pockets
Never run dry of unpaid match bonuses
For it is a do-or-die

Not he to lose a match
Wherein the result is his megaphone's
The selected voice to announce
To effeminate men that may object
Feebly or forever remain silent
For it is a do-or-die

Suddenly, blasts with uproar
Of anguish comes bearing
No distinct address and jolts
All: players,
Officials, fans, foul-play
Spectators and the outnumbering
Fence-sitters, our cosmetic cosy domain,
Culprits by fear and silence,
Interested only in eking out
Peaceful dismal daily bread from
Mold-infested baking ingredients
For it is a do-or-die

Alas! how this do-or-die trade
Has done us no good
But bought us a collective
Colossal death displayed in profuse
Tears, sweat and blood
That mingle in a surging flood
That would berth a better generation

(c) chris Jibero,2007.

Submitted: Saturday, July 10, 2010
Edited: Thursday, July 29, 2010

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