Monkey
And so the pain and hurt
Of seventy-seven years
Has finally been laid to rest
No longer the monkey on our backs
For on the seventh day
Of the seventh month
The first time since Seventy Seven
The choking’s over
There’s an end to gallant failure
And a line of sporting losers
Broke him in the seventh game
And did it three times over
In the searing heat
Of hope and expectation
Buoyed up by a nation
That held its collective breath
This son of Dunblane
Ruled the grass-court
And gave us what we wanted
Now the nets are taken down and folded
And the grass is left to grow again
There’s an end to jugs of Pimms
And strawberries and cream
The queuing and the tickets
And as it falls silent in South West One
And the crowds slowly dissipate
Their return to the drudgery
Of Monday morning work
Is lifted by their triumph
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