my heart rose from the bed this morning, hungry for success which was laid out blatantly on the table. my head, not one who relishes being left behind, made his mark with a loud explosion which turned heads in the household. sheepish he might look, he went on to glare at my heart.
“what say you, weakling?” he thundered. my heart, chewing the tuna nonchalantly, sniffed the air.
“you smell that? that’s the scent of victory! liverpool shall clobber the gunners 3-0.” and he continued munching his fruits.
“absolutely ghastly! you must be mad! look at the statistics and form book! arsenal are going to triumph 3-0! football is played with brains, not brawn!” my head roared.
“i beg to differ, my lord. football is played with hearts, not heads,” my heart ended with a sneer.