Juste (sic) Making Comparisons.
¶ 1
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Endless tales of mad chicanery
Drunken injured louts who fight
I’m not talking of fans like you and me
But primed athletes out on a night.
¶ 2
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I hear the news on the latest deals
And the riches that they’ll gain
As agents wind us up with their spiel
Of “My poor man is but a slave”.
¶ 3
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I know wayback t’was a different game
Them days of baggy shorts and brylcreem
But I’d give all to have been Juste Fontaine,
To have plyed my trade at Rheims.
¶ 4
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As a mere enfant from Marrakesh
Who made his home in mainland France
Injured at twenty seven, and forced to retire
His tally scored still stands.
¶ 5
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Up alongside Raymond Kopa
France were c’est formidable
I see so called idols playing today
Only fit to grace a card school.
¶ 6
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Thirteen goals in one World Cup finals
That’s not too bad, I can hear you say
And those who aspire to wind up in jail
Will they peak like Juste Fontaine?
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