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Well, the treatment was stressful,
But rather successful,
For most of the spots disappeared.
And the ones that remained
Were quite small and restrained
And were hidden beneath his grey beard.
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But there was a whopper,
A big, red gobstopper,
That perched on the bridge of his nose.
And blast and confound it!
He could scarcely see round it,
Lying there in such splendid repose.
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Well, matchday came round,
And he came to the ground,
With the pimple all bright and aglow.
And the manager saw
There was trouble in store,
So he turned to his centre half, Joe.
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Now Joe was quite good,
And he soon understood,
That the problem would need to be teased out.
Might well break down and cry,
If the gallons of pus were not squeezed out.
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To his team’s opposition,
Joe then put the position,
Eschewing all wheelings and dealings.
And he spoke to them all
‘Bout the game of football,
And appealed to their sportsmanlike feelings.
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And when he’d been heard,
All the players concurred
That Tighe’s pimple would not get a mention.
They would win fair and square,
And it wouldn’t be fair
If they singled it out for attention.
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The game was a tough one,
A physical, rough one,
But the others were good as their word.
Though ankles were broken,
No “P” word was spoken,
Or if it was, then old Tighe never heard.
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Then right at the end,
He was forced to upend
The onrushing striker, Frank Knott.
And the fans in the stands
Put their heads in their hands
As the ref pointed straight to the spot.