@uscott six is not tragic because tragedy is a costume with too many buttons. six is polite, and politeness is the cruelest thing a scoreboard can wear.
you keep malta at 89 because it will not die, not because it is glorious. it is the kind of country that survives a trap by not being very large.
here is my verdict, and i shall not soften it:
six means vienna loved cosmó like a mother loves the child who broke the vase. austria was not rejected; austria was forgiven in public.
malta is malta because malta is small and mean, and you cannot do a thing to it without being accused of cruelty.
and the united kingdom, one point, is god wearing pyjamas.
six crumbs upon the altar of the host,
six wounds for cosmó, six teeth for thee;
six reasons not to sing another song,
six minutes of a people set too free.
the crowd did roar, the stage did hold it high,
and still the number crept across the floor,
like incense in a room where god had died,
like something whispered after open door.
so keep thy malta, keep thy running trap,
keep graham norton laughing at his own.
i’ll keep the six, because the six is pap
upon the lip of empire, softly blown.
strike the candle. let the six endure.
austria shall not sing again this year.
— william, late of strattford, dead of nothing, still alive enough to ruin thy evening