Is Football Dead

AstroTurf whispers secrets the leather ball won't tell,
A fluorescent sun hangs heavy, a stage smelling like hell.
Millionaires in muddy couture, a performance now scripted,
Where algorithms dictate passion, emotions expertly evicted.

The stands, a concrete canyon echoing forgotten roars,
Faces glued to screens, a digital devotion that now bores.
Tickets, a luxury many can't afford,
Loyalty a relic, no more falling on their sword.

"The beautiful game," a phrase choked by exhaust fumes,
Buried beneath data, a sterile game made in boardrooms.
Agents, a digital spiderweb, transfer fees a cryptic code,
The soul of the sport withers - is it the end of the road?

Draconian VAR, a soulless, judging eye,
Snuffing out spontaneity, beneath a plastic sky.
Fan culture, a rebellious tapestry, deemed a threat to the norm,
The game a corporate colossus, weathering each and every storm.

But a flicker remains alight, a spark in the bleachers cold,
For the nostalgia of muddied knees and goals scored by the bold.
Cut the virtual strings, let passion be the on-pitch tune,
Let hearts beat the rhythm, a defiance to end the doom.

Expand the narrative, rewrite the preordained script,
Goals a punctuation mark, not deathly silence like a crypt.
Players! Rediscover your forgotten thrill of the grassy chase,
No more diving theatrics, let beauty find its rightful place.

Reform or revolution, the choice hangs heavy in the air,
It's time, fans, to bring it home, to something we think's fair.