The deck fans out, paper-thin promises of triumph,
the weight of military tanks, the speed of racing cars,
each card a champion waiting for its name to be called.
I press them to my chest, sticky fingers gripping history,
knowing the playground will judge me by numbers alone.
Armour thickness, horsepower, displacement—
the hard facts of victory, stacked in my hands.
Dubreq’s mark, Waddingtons’ legacy,
the packs accumulating in worn pockets,
fifty pence at a time, a treasury of childhood strategy.
A call rings out— my mate pulls a battleship,
I counter with a fighter jet. The numbers tell a truth
I can’t argue— I concede, surrender my card to the pile.
A slow lesson in fortune and risk,
the thrill of collecting, the silent grief of losing.
Tomorrow, I’ll win it back— or find a new deck to chase.
Top Trumps is my world, and I am its architect.