Pick a side; your call. But I guarantee 

the grass is greener on the other.

They've beaten you one way or another,

just like your pathetic predecessors. 

Look at you - a sweaty, neurotic mess,

 

dribbling the last of your whisky chaser

down your chest while glaring at the laptop 

with your back hunched. You grip your shaking hands,

praying that the Argentine football team

you hadn't even heard off till tonight

 

can hang on for a hard fought nil nil draw - 

An unorthodox goalie stood between

a temporary sense of elation

and explaining where 500 quid's gone.

No one emerges from this a victor,

 

but we keep playing the game. Just one more,

just one more, you say, your heart racing

like It Don't Come Easy at Royal Ascot,

and in a race against fate you cash out,

your own inquest flashing before your eyes.

 

And remember - the bookie always wins.