I bumped into my friend Hopkins this morning.
Morning, Boss, I greeted him. Grand weather for Good Friday.
Hopkins stared at me manically.
What none would have known of it, only the heart, being hard at bay,
Is out with it! Oh,
We lash with the best or worst
Word last! How a lush-kept plush-capped sloe
Will, mouthed to flesh-burst,
Gush! â€” flush the man, the being with it, sour or sweet,
Brim, in a flash, full! â€” Hither then, last or first,
To hero of Calvary, Christ,’s feet â€”
Never ask if meaning it, wanting it, warned of it â€” men go.
I’d been expecting this. So, I said, you were listening to the news about the rugby, were you?
Some find me a sword; some
The flange and the rail; flame,
Fang, or flood,’ goes Death on a drum
Hopkins always was passionate about sport.
Yes, I said. I feel bad about it too. I suppose the French had their reasons for pulling out, but at the same time, it’s very disappointing.
Hopkins spat, and laughed a bitter little snort. NOT, I’ll not, carrion comfort, Despair, not feast on thee; Not untwist slack they may be these last strands of man In me Ã³r, most weary, cry I can no more.
Indeed, I replied. Very profound. But look, Boss, this isn’t the end of the world. I mean, we might not have the Heineken Cup next year, but there will surely be some kind of European competition.
Hopkins stared at me as if I had gone mad. No!! Worse!! There is none!!!!