Snowed off (or wishing it had been)
¶ 1
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Oh, if only 4 pints, could be a quart of sensibility
And not just, the limit of my drinking ability
When, on a weekend full of snow
It’s off to the nearest pub we go
When we trudge
Through the sludge
To the local, with cosy fire all aglow
And we laugh, at a certain team, fielding Tor Andre Flo
Comfy in the snug, we analyse, all the completed fixtures
As the ladies ordered, sundry potent mixtures
On the weekend when the Hammers finally start to ascend
It appears, that the Black Cats
Have lost the ability to defend
Either that
Or they’d forgotten to turn around
To attack t’other end o’the ground
For one own goal, might be deemed unfortunate
And two, from the same player, disproportionate
But THREE, well that’s utterly mindboggling
And there’s just no rhyme nor reason to that!
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