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A curse upon thee, hawthorn bush
That skirts this meadow green and lush,
Where me and Notcher, Wayne and Jock
Played football until four o’clock.
For hours we scored with bullet headers
From corner balls that Notcher fed us,
And sometimes we would volley true
With nothing goalie Jock could do.
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A curse upon thy prickly thorn
That spoiled the game we’ve played since morn
When Wayne, through one huge act of folly,
Totally mis-struck a volley
And watched the ball soar o’er the grass
And into thy deep, thorny mass.
And though the sun shines bright this day,
I guess you’d call it “Wayne stops play.”