For them it’s like a game of chess;
Two blokes try their bloody best
To win the squares of Britain’s board,
Under which our hope is stored.
–
But behind each silent, stoic pawn
Is hungry nurse or child born
In poverty, used in games,
Played to the hum of distant pain.
–
Though some may play with heart on sleeve,
Riding like knight or cavalry,
The ever cunning tablemate
Trots round the board with no mistake.
–
As when you’re watching from afar,
And you’re not the piece with which they charge,
You tend to have a clearer view
Of how the rules might bend for you.
–
‘Our guy won! Your guy lost!’
‘Our Bobby Fischer sees Boris off!’*
They can shake hands, their wounds are healed
While others sweep their battlefield.
–
So sure, this is a game of chess;
We cheer for those that we like best.
But remember those in ‘cheaper’ seats
Are crushed by passing kings and queens.
–
*a reference to Boris Spassky, a Russian chess grandmaster who lost to American Bobby Fischer in 1972
