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My Dad told me to clean my boots the moment I got in,
To leave them till the mud had dried would be a mortal sin.
So, rather unsurprisingly, I followed Dad’s advice,
[The consequences of refusal would not have been nice.]
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And so I’d set to work upon a paper on the floor,
With Football Cleaning Knife [not one from out the kitchen drawer.]
And when the mud was all teased out, I’d get a tin of dubbin,
And with an old vest of my Dad’s, I’d give those boots a rubbin’.
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And when the boots were polished and did glisten, gleam and shine,
My Dad would come along and check this handiwork of mine.
And if I ever missed a bit, he wouldn’t go berserk
Just make me do it all again, to have some pride in work.
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My football days are long since gone, and now I have a lad
Of fifteen years, who doesn’t pay much notice of his Dad.
I tell him he should clean his boots when he comes in from footie,
But he just stares at me as though I’m absolutely nutty.
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In fairness though, occasionally, he’ll do what he is told,
Though sometimes all that football mud is two or three days old.
Frustratedly, he’ll hack away, newspaper on the floor,
With special knife, that’s not kept in his mother’s kitchen drawer.
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Though if he’s very busy, I might help clean off the mud,
I carefully prise up the dirt round each and every stud,
Then try to lever off the mud in one piece off the soles,
Producing a large piece of earth, replete with stud-sized holes.
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I used to do that as a kid, it gave me quite a thrill,
Removing that odd shape of mud required no little skill.
And even now, when it comes off, it makes my heart feel glad,
No wonder my son looks at me and reckons that I’m sad.