I (almost) subbed Martin Chivers
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I once played with Martin Chivers,
Sunday team were short and he said yes!
He ran the local pub by the river,
And tho’ 50-odd he pulled on our vest.
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A man of grace, blond in hair and beard,
A North-London sagging Socrates,
strength and strike still to be feared,
Innate timing, he passed with alacrity.
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But 3-nil down at half time,
International pentagenarian flags.
Then, as ever, Chivers foot like a tine,
On a mortally wounded stag
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pierces the net, with professional relish,
scores for Brookmans Park thirds – at last.
Pride of the Park Lane and the English,
looks up to silence in the municipal park.
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Later on the bleary subs arrive,
and with youth may come a result.
I ask Uefa Cup winner Chiv to make way, he replies:
and I quote, “That would be the final insult.”
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