A frigid mist hangs over the dark city Covering it like funeral shroud, A point of light breaks the gloom Near the dark ribbon of the Clyde, A shoddy colosseum, where gladiators In blue and green grimly struggle As the baying crowd seethes and sways, Everything staked on a winning hand, Two mighty roars punctuate the gloom, No victor’s laurel for either today They must wait till the next time To settle their never ending grudge Torrents of humanity pour from the scene A mindless river pushing ever onwards...
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