Dream Team

Ah, there goes Hitler -
dribbling down the right wing, looking for space.
His fans are out in force today;
the west stand shakes to the crunch of boots;
banners, a rosebush of red semaphore;
salutes like a man with his arm in a cast
trying to flag down a bus.

Stalin yaws out of midfield
in a wake of dirt and blades;
the Fuhrer dithers - the hoots from the west stand
fade like the close of a pop track.
Hitler hoofs it
to Eisenhower;
Eisenhower chests it, starts a run,
but Mao is on him like white on rice.
Mao takes a great leap forward, studs out.
A crunch echoes
round a stadium that has suddenly become
like a haunted mansion.
Eisenhower gets stretchered off;
in the east stand, ranks of fans hold up
little books - a sea of red cards.