World Cup Hangover – And a poem on the eight limbed dude.

The World is over and I am missing it already. I am sure many who followed the World Cup must be doing the same. For those still unsure about it, here are some pointers to determine that you are missing the World Cup:
1) At the stroke of midnight, you reflexively change the channel to ESPN (if in India). I did it yesterday and got momentarily confused by the absence of foot kicking ball or melodramatic reactions to defensive tackles.
2) You realize that you cannot sleep till 2.30 AM in the night. You try and try hard but your brain responds to your pleas for mercy with “we got some footie to watch”.
3) You miss the sound of bees going on all out war. After bearing the sound of vuvuzelas for a month, you realize that you will be missing it (It has been banned in the 2014 World Cup by the way.)
4) You have to search for a new topic to discuss with your friends and colleagues. With friends, it is easier. With colleagues, it is not especially when you have just joined the company.
5) When you see a rickshaw driver try to overtake your vehicle a little dangerously, you almost yell, “Offside!!”
6) You compare your naughty and unpredictable son/dau ghter/nephew/niece to the Jabulani.
7) You still connect Shakira to Waka Waka rather than “hips”
8) You get even more pissed while having to endure ads between overs in a cricket match.
9) You still root for Paraguay to win. (and have nightmares about what would happen if Argentina had won)

Yesterday night was especially difficult for me. To spend the time, I composed (rather decomposed) a poem on the world’s most talked about aquatic animal:

You will find him in a small tank in Germany
He lives his life in perfect harmony

The name of the dude is Paul
These days everyone knows him, those who dig football.

They make him choose between sides two,
They see who he goes to, ignores he who

Ignored by him were those who eventually lost,
Everyone prayed that Paul chooses their team, at any cost

Not many fortune tellers have such a streak
They all scratch their heads, and think of him as a freak.

Many want to kill him, many think ill of him, in vain,
He will always have his well wishers in good ol’ Spain

In all this melee, in all this hype,
Paul must be thinking what is the big fuss,
They gave me two bowls of food, and I just choose one,
I ain’t some glutton; I am just a normal octopus.


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