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When I was just a lad,
And I looked up to my dad,
[In every way, but mainly in the physical.]
I enquired of said dad,
Was it true Frank Swift was mad?
And he looked at me with countenance quite quizzical.
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“Frank Swift,” my dad intoned,
“Was what they call big-boned.
In fact he was a veritable giant.
He had hands as big as rocks,
And he’d prowl around his box,
So moody and so square-jawed and defiant.
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‘If a corner came across,
You knew Swifty was the boss,
Oftentimes he’d catch the ball one-handed.
He was brave and he was fearless,
And in my lifetime, peerless,
And he did whatever circumstance demanded.
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‘His favourite trick by far
Was to hang down from the bar,
And catch the corner with his other hand.
If he dropped down, he’d be barged,
And quite badly shoulder-charged,
So he’d calmly throw the ball into the stand.
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‘All goalkeepers are mad,”
Went on my dew-eyed dad,
But Swifty was the daftest of them all.
The lack of this colossus
Is now one of football’s losses,
A better goalie never caught a ball.”