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It’s not so much striking the ball,
as the way I now run
that tells me my game’s in its Fall
and that soon I’ll be done.
It’s not in the way that I think
or where I want to go,
but rather that I’d rather drink,
and my pace is so slow.
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It’s not in the things I can’t see,
but the things I can’t change,
and the way my strip no longer drapes
’round my waist that is strange.
When I was a kid, the whole thing
seemed to be automatic.
Now what I once did has no sting,
and I’m stouter and static.
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. . .I’ll play on, as if there could
possibly be some advantage
to possession at my age,
when shouting is all I can manage,
and thank the officials
as I never did as a boy,
for seeing me safe to the pub
from this Game I enjoy.