All things considered, I think I'm taking my beloved Spain's loss to Brazil today in stride. Here are my reworkings of poetry to match my mood.
Roses are red
violets are blue
Now is the winter of our discontent/
Made even worse by having to hear about Neymar all summer.
I measure every grief I meet
With analytic eyes;
I wonder if it weighs like mine,
Or has an easier size.
Like, however tall that wanker Fernando Torres is.
O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done, The ship has weather'd every rack, except the three goals our shoddy back line couldn't keep out. We obviously didn't weather those very well.
Red is the rose that in yonder garden grows/
And red is the color of the card Piqué got for that bonehead tackle on Neymar.
Music to hear, why hear'st thou music sadly?
probably has something to do with having no actual strikers.