Poem: Bad Sport

A poem about a bad sport. And Bad Sport.

When Richard was drunk it was lookout.
It was everything from life of the (always/impromptu)
party – to home demolition. No one could know
when to blow a whistle to signal the changing of sides.
And what good was being a referee? But I found
myself vice-captain of his team, captain of the opposition,
a coach for one team or the other – and even an umpire too.
That’s possibly why I found it so exhausting.
That’s possibly why he liked to call everything a game;
he loved seeing people running around.
He loved to win trophies and
burn the stadium to the ground.