Victory has a thousand sires,
Of credit each claims portion.
Defeat’s progenitors are unknown,
The poor mite is an orphan.
The Winning Team’s supporters
“We really were the Twelfth Man today –
Throughout the match kept up our deafening roar.
Even when the Lads were two down.
For we don’t only sing when we’re winning, us.”
The Winning Team’s Manager
“That substitution I made midway through the Second Half,
A masterstroke, turning point of the game really.
Not to mention my motivation skills,
If I hadn’t kept bawling from the dugout…”
The Winning Team’s Players
“We earned our corn today,
Didn’t give in, kept plugging away,
Two-nil down, three-two up,
We never say die, us.”
Victory has a thousand dads,
Each wants his share of glory.
But when they’re on the losing side,
Why, it’s a different story.
The Losing Team’s Supporters
“Don’t blame us, we played our part.
Unlike that bunch of wallies on the park.
Can’t think why we bother,
They’re not fit to wear the Shirt, that lot.”
The Losing Team’s Manager
“Ok, I pick the team, but it’s them on the pitch.
I can’t help it if they miss sitters,
Fluff spot-kicks, throw away two-goal leads.
As for the ref, oh, don’t get me started on the ref!”
The Losing Team’s Players
“Ain’t our fault, we di’n’t do nuffink.
It woz Gaffer wot told us to ease up,
Save energy for next week’s Cup replay.
And the vocal support? Quiet as a morgue!”
A thousand fathers Victory has,
As noted JFK,
She is the fruit of ten-hundred loins,
While glum Defeat’s a waif.
Denys E. W. Jones