Yard of Ale

Before the competition starts, take a breath,

look into a snow topped tube

on the floor, a glass of goodness

rainbow rising, as they say, good for you.

 

First taste and sweetness sucks, gulp, tip

and gulp for more, ‘Give me more!’

down your neck through the driving heart

and, ah, spreading out to every limb.

 

Now half-full,

with team-mates shouting, cacophony

egging action, obligation

‘Go for it, for the team, for your mates. Us!’

 

But now it hurts, belly full and round, busting

and, with pleading eyes, guys and gals need emptiness,

so swallow on, engorge the gloop, slurping,

trying not to gag, to fall.

 

Result.

 

Slump to the floor. The baton passes

and a new arrow flies.