by Nick Gisburne
Accept the wreath of triumph round your neck
The titles - victor, champion - are yours
But all we see are sideshows, not the cheque
The money makes a winner, not the scores
With generations hungry in their beds
Your wealth could pay to flood the world with food
In places where they severe hands and heads
You guard your words, reluctant to be rude
As kings you rule the pinnacles of sport
But never raise a voice or make a splash
Defending dark agreements to extort
The object of your only passion: cash
So play the anthems, raise the trophies high
For triumphs, bought and sold while others die
