He will shift and shake like a meticulously poisonous snake – this particular poison lies devotedly within the Nike boot, a leather-bound salute to these pin-pricked posts, where heroes get to launch a questionable career, put ghosts to absolute rest
He flicks his seismic shoulders, his shuddering chest, the rip-roaringly notorious individualistic routine a team and proud nation has come to love
A resolute need to feel every next breath, for the threat to come to absolute fruition
The penalty-kickers ammunition never so disarming in all of its eighty-minute quarter-final life, a sizeable three-point knife through these South African stop-start hearts again
Journalists and their juiced-up pens will be made to work for their momentary worth, steal a piece of intricately concentrated history away, write just as they have been paid
This has to hurt like hell on hot wheels, thirty bloodied shirts feeling the wax aside the all too inevitable wane – one of two behemoth choices has to be slain
Will it be the the rhino or the dragon per say
When one Dan Biggar made his name meet its descriptive intent right by the middle, soaring to rapturous worldwide acclaim – hard to ever know how this peculiar story will force itself to go
All reliant upon the placing of his stoic and twisted toes
And then the opposition stole it all away in an agonising instance… Nelson Mandela’s men getting to steal it soon as the Welsh least suspect it
Garnered respect on the flick of a kinder than dime

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