We seem more sinned against than sinning,
For they smite us when we’re winning,
And we’re grinning all the way
To three more points.
Our opponents end up crying,
For the red cards keep on flying –
No denying that we play
With aching joints.
Four league games, four dismissals,
Matches rife with urgent whistles,
Ref just bristles when they let
Those tackles sting.
And the red cards that they brandish,
Though at times a mite outlandish
Are a grand dish that they set
Before the king.