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A long long time ago, within the city of Baghdad,
A wily looking merchant plied his trade.
He made a lot of money, but what really made him glad,
Was all the games of football that he played.
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The merchant owned some shin pads, that were made of ox’s hide,
And naturally he wore one down each sock,
And at the post-match booze-up, he would show them off with pride,
For they both ensured he’d never be a crock.
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For nearly twenty years, those two old shinpads did their stuff,
Till finally the merchant did not need ‘em.
He organised a banquet for those servants old and tough,
And munificently bequeathed to them their freedom.
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Now the shinpad on the left, he wanted nothing out of life,
Quite humdrum were the places he frequented.
He bought a little house and took a jockstrap for a wife,
And settled down quite happy and contented.
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The other shinpad, though, possessed a very different view.
Not for him the bindings of inertia.
He sold all his possessions and he joined the merry crew
Of the very next ship going out of Persia.
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Well, life was scarcely boring, he’d adventures by the score,
Many times he nearly swam with fishes.
Shipwrecked more than once upon a strange and hostile shore,
And cruelly imprisoned ‘gainst his wishes.
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Clinging to a barrel, he was plucked out of the sea
By the eagle-eyed crew members of a whaler.
They recognised immediately the ox-hide refugee,
For everybody knew Shinpad the Sailor.