Bread and circus with pomp and jet

By far, by far, the best game seen yet
All stills majestic into muffled pause        
For what now sharpens nation’s claws
The clowns have all left the circus ring
Hope becomes a forlorn, lamented thing
So let’s wave to Caesar in his purple box
His work now done, he has fed the clocks
No hunger is felt, no angst is revealed
The iron of UK might becomes annealed
In all the assay of a long prepared redact
Where but England will I make this pact?

© Edetric Vistal