I’m twelve, in bed

in freshly ironed pyjamas

so, it could have been a weekend,

my hero Jimmy Greaves ghosting

past defenders on my bedroom wall

an early autumn evening, air was close

and showed signs of change

I sensed something bad happening

just knew it somehow, and

felt the day would end poorly.

Then came the bang, wood on wood,

shouting, a muffled timid squea...

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