To be read to the howling sea, with the heavy night’s breath and loneliness of the world at your back and the sun far from the horizon.
O Gold Cup! My Gold Cup! Our fearful tourney’s done.
The ankles are all taped and iced, the prize we sought is won.
AO is near, the drums I hear, the people all exulting,
while follow eyes the steady heel of Rafa Marquez glaring.
But O heart! Heart! Heart!
O the drops fall down like ash,
where on the field my Gold Cup lies
because this one was so trash.
O Gold Cup! My Gold Cup! I thought you would be fun!
But Mexico never cared, and Pulisic didn’t come!
Sloppy play and poor defense and stalemates in the heat.
Costa Rica didn’t scare, but we nearly lost to Martinique!
Here Gold Cup! Bright trophy!
Sharp angles glint and flash!
How did my off-year Gold Cup
become so utterly trash?
O Gold Cup! My Gold Cup! I’m done with your 5-3-2s!
90 minutes never felt so long as the Panama game with no booze.
Sure, we scored some nice ones and didn’t have to play Cuba,
but the most interesting part of the entire thing was probably Florent Malouda.
In two years, when Mexico tries
You might really be a bash.
But I will remember this Gold Cup
As one that was mostly trash.