Strike it out

(Greetings from Mayakovsky)

English football —
a fool's game:
turf,
and a leg,
and a passion
driven straight to the colonies.

Who passes the ball?
He sells the sport.
Writes no rules —
twists fates,
breathes profit.

Who counts the goals?
Tweaks the balance?
He doesn't care
who's champion, —
for the rest, the outcome:
only despair,
a crack-up,
and a groan.

And the referee?
He stands in black,
blows his whistle.
Has eyes, but sees no truth —
he'll wrong one,
reward another.
For an envelope,
for Bitcoin,
for the right result —
he'll whistle
as needed,
and that's that,
and here:
the game is no game,
but a spectacle for the herd.

Who smears contracts with ads?
The show —
a drug for the masses.
The people's victory
the crowd snuffed out,
forgetting
what was there,
trampling itself in the mud,
like the last piece of filth.

Come out
into the yards!
Into the garages!
No cameras,
no lies.

Global capitalism,
like parasitism, —
strike it out:
with chalk,
with fire,
with spirit.

Can't do it —
sit in the reservation,
in the dark,
with an open date,
everything deaf.

May lapta save us!
There's no money there.
There our blow meets them head-on —
will give them endless light.

Strike it out.
Strike it out.
Strike it out.