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At two score a pop, me derriere’s slot,*
Is not what a fan would call cheap
But what’s troubling me lately
Is not Sheva’s straight b’s
It’s just what to do with me feet?
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When watching the game, I’m feeling me frame,
Precariously placed at an angle
Where me posture is leaning toward where its at,
Whilst me feet are all twisted and mangled
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Me knees poke in the bloke, sat next to me’s space
As I shift to fit them under me chin
Have they put in a row, without letting me know,
Of new seats, to squeeze more of us in?
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To me it seems strange, I’ll be needing explained,
Just what’s going on with my seat
Or else I’ll be heading, for the exit sign yelling
‘I’m not concerned about score, be it win or a draw
But what worry’s me most is these feet’!