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I know that I’m not good enough
To make it on the team.
If I were made of sterner stuff,
I’d be a coach’s dream.
But I’m too timid and afraid,
I’ve bottled every game I’ve played,
I always spoil the big parade,
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My father’s owner of the club,
The coach is in his pay.
And that is why I’m picked as sub
But never picked to play.
But sure I’m comfy on the bench,
To leave it now would be a wrench,
Those splinters make my buttocks clench,
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A player has to be half dead
Before he’s called ashore.
Better one with bandaged head
Than one who shuns the war.
Our centre forward once was booted,
Deemed he should be substituted,
His broken leg, though, was refuted –