Thunder crackles as the storm drenches the house.
Inside, The burly men huddle in an intimate embrace,
And gather around a digital portal.
Pungent smells of sweat and charred hotdogs cloud the room.
Stray beer cans and food crumbs already dishevel the orderly space.
A tense and nauseating aura of testosterone radiates
As the men prepare for the night’s Orwellian propaganda.
Lightning flashes; then the game starts.

As soon as the man in black and white commences the ritual,
A descent into tribalism immediately begins.
Opposing factions line up in parallel,
Who couldn’t be more different according to intoxicated men.
The deified animal flesh bewitches the mindless viewers
As it soars through the field in a constant clash of violence.
The men rally behind their arbitrary allegiance
With nationalistic fervor to defend their fragile ego.
As the tide of war shifts, the enraptured savages spew either
A boastful battle cry,
Or bitter bellow
That leaves the house ruptured.

Obscured by propaganda, a frail dog scampers,
Displaced by the drunk men’s rapture.
Seeking asylum, it flees into comforting shadows,
And waits out the storm.